


The River Runs Red

by solitariusvirtus



Series: So Doth The River Run [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Requited Love, Second Chances, Widowed, pre-asoiaf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-06-05 17:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 41
Words: 146,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6714565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wed a second time out of necessity, Lyanna, now tied to House Rosby, has made peace with the impossibility of her most ardent wishes. Her departure from court leaves behind a gap which must be filled by some manner or another. Moreover it leaves her firstborn in danger. Many decisions have yet to be made and in light of the ensuing power struggle, she must decide whether she has it within her to do what is required of her.<br/> <br/>A king crowned, Rhaegar Targaryen finds that his court brings him much dissatisfaction. Old alliances fall apart and new bonds are formed. But the frailty of it all is undeniable, even with the dragons born anew. Choice in his hand, he pushes the Kingdoms further into conflict.</p><p>Or Lyanna Stark is parted from Rhaegar and inevitably finds her way back, only this time her ambitions are much grander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Of The Sharpened Claws

 

 

 

 

 

 

"That is an old wives' tale," Lewyn wisely said to the young Lannister sitting upon the heavy trunk. "I do not suggest trying anything the like on your steel."

From his own seat Arthur tried his best not to imagine how something of the manner came to be. But as all men liked their suffering every now and again to come upon the wings of something spectacular, he could hardly help himself from poking at the scab. "My good men, think about it for a moment though. Say that one should go about procuring the needed ingredients. How exactly do you get aurochs to keep still through the process?" He smiled innocently at the look of pure horror on the other Dornishman's face. "And might be more importantly, how do you avoid being mounted on its horns by the end of it? His own theory was that boredom had advanced the creation of such a monster. That had to be it.

"I do not know. However, we can let Lannister here try his hand." Presumably his sword hand at that. "I daresay you young folk have enough training in this as is."

Arthur chuckled. "I cannot speak for the young one here, but I need no training in such." The satisfied look on his face clarified any and all questions. "Say, Jaime, are you fit for the task?"

The lion slammed him with a dark look. "You needn't worry over my wellbeing in that , I assure you. As for aurochs, I would rather not try my hand at it. Or my life for that matter. Ill-tempered creatures, you see."

"Speaking of ill-tempered creatures," Arthur came back once he'd stopped laughing, "have you seen Lady Velaryon's reaction to the poor servant girl her lord husband was ogling? Never mind that the girl was trembling all over. We must do something about these servant girls, I tell you. It is much too dangerous to keep them about."

"Never you mind that," Jaime cut in, "you should have heard her when she caught him in the hallway. That man has long since become the proverbial bull. What you saw there was no move at conquest, but rather one last effort at respectability. Lady Velaryon has nothing to fear."

"Then he is to be pitied," Lewyn offered. "Women who would act thusly, likely know little of men." Or they did not care. Sensing that the conversation could take a wrong turns at any time, Arthur cleared his throat.

"We ought to help the man if we can." Giving Lewyn a challenging look, he leaned in. "If you could work your charm on her. Jaime and I, surely we would try as well, but I hear she liked more mature fare." Of course, Lewyn's own mistress would probably close the door in his face next he ambled to her bedchamber if he should try anything the like. "Or might be we should ask the Lord Commander."

"The man has enough worries is. I do believe I have a solution," Jaime intervened after casting glances in both their ways. "I hear one can just as easily be serviced by a few gallons of wine. And then poor Lord Velaryon might ogle all the servant girls he likes."

"By the by, if we speak of servants, Gryselle Rambton has returned." Arthur had been in the process of swallowing a mouthful of wine, from Rhaegar's cup, but truly what did he expect leaving perfectly good wine unattended, when the name registered in his mind. He subsequently choked on the drink. Ironically enough the Dornish wine was the perfect accompaniment to the Dornish news.

"Nay," he managed to get out at long last, ignoring the expectant look on Jaime's face. "Gryselle can't be here. If she did not arrive for the tourney, why would she make her way here now?" Not that he had anything against Gryselle. As daughters of landless knights went, she was a sweet enough thing. What with the red-gold of her hair and those bright blue eyes.

"Truly? That is your reaction? Come, I remember Gryselle well enough to know any man should be glad to have the sight of her," here Lewyn paused and looked at Jaime, "endowments," his eyebrow raised, "once again so close by."

"Who is Gryselle Rambton?" The confusion was positively hilarious. Gryselle was, of course, not long at court, even when she served dutifully, however, there were still plenty who whispered of her.

Arthur tsked. "I am so disappointed, Ser Jaime. How can you not know of Gryselle Rambton?" For all the unexpectedness of her return, and the amount of sheer ache it would undoubtedly produce, he was more than amenable to place in Rhaegar's path that reminder.

"Don't be so cruel to the boy," the Dornish Prince pressed him. "Gryselle, or Sella as she was called at times, was an intimate companion of our King's. Before his marriage to my niece, of course." Not that them keeping company afterwards would have been impossible.

Jaime flushed. "The King's?" Aerys' own mistress had been more infamous for the manner of her death. Naturally that story would have taken precedence over any of the Crown Prince's, at the time, antics. Thus Sella, with all her beauty, sweetness and endowments, had been relegated to the shadows. More the pity, for the position did not suit her.

"Indeed. Is the King not a man, Ser Jaime, do you think?" The mocking question prompted a snort from the Lannister cub.

"I do not doubt that he is." Nor should he at any point. Rhaegar had proved to them in particular, and on a more personal level to Lady Lyanna, that he was indeed a man. Arthur shook his head . "So this Gryselle, how much did the King care for her?"

"A great deal less than her lord husband, last I heard." The Dornish Prince stretched to take the cup from Arthur. "She was, doubtless, fonder of him than he was of her. But I hear they got on marvellously. Dayne?"

"I must have you know, Martell, that I do not share rooms with him. I know only as much as you do." The disbelieving looks he got were well merited. Arthur shrugged. "I know they parted on good terms. There. Will that do?"

Jaime laughed. "Not at all. Why are you concerned at her return?"

"Concerned? I? Nay. I was expressing my joy." By almost choking to death. That ought to be the hallmark of joy from this day forth. "You mistook me." He was not afraid as such. It was more in the nature of an unsettlement. Gryselle Rambton could be capital in her approach and more than willing to cooperate if in the mood. But it had to be said her mood needed to be long coaxed by anyone from whose favour she had naught to gain. "You see, Gryselle has always been close to my heart. Are you certain you have not seen her? She is difficult to miss."

"Exceedingly so," the third man agreed. "She brought her sister too."

Janos Rambton, Gryselle's husband, had three sisters. Arthur knew because each and every one of them had been present at Rhaegar's wedding to Elia. And Gryselle had a sister of her own. The first tree had been about Gryselle's age, sharing their brother's unexceptional looks. And then there had been Melda. Grymelda, in full, she had been about ten or so winters of age at the time.

"Melda. Gods, she used to be a frightened little thing, always clinging to her sister's skirts." He recalled once having helped her down a tree. How and why she got there escaped him utterly. He was fairly certain it had been something the like of a cat stuck on some branch. Such things made maidens' hearts bleed.

"She follows well in her sister's footsteps." The answer gave Arthur pause. He threw Lewyn a suspicious look until the man held his hand up. "I fear Ser Brune shall part with another daughter on his visit to King's Landing." As most landless knights were obliged to do if their overlords fancied themselves enthralled. It was naught which brought shock anymore.

"Just as long as she knows her boundaries," Arthur shrugged, perceiving that one of his cloak's clasps had come undone. Rhaegar was unlikely to look twice at her. For a number of reasons, true, but foremost because of his current mistress. What with both mistress and lady wife, a man had no time to sleep at all. A second lover beside was not advisable. "Or she could always wait for His Grace Prince Viserys to grow." Now that was a thought. One which Ser Brune would not appreciate as much as he had his older daughter's success.

"I daresay that one is more like his father than anyone of us might like," Jaime spoke, breaking the pleasant atmosphere. None of them had forgotten the Queen words. And neither were they likely to. "The King ought to send him far off, to squire for some lord and learn from his betters."

A difficult accomplishment at Viserys' age. The boy was not unkind for the most part. But Ser Jaime had the right of it. There was something odd in that child's manner. And well there should be, given his closeness to the late Aerys. "The Queen Mother would hardly allow it." It had been a tug of war, of sorts, between spouses, to see which one of them had a better grip of the reins of their children's emotions.

"The Queen Mother does not rule." True enough, but she still had some influence. Enough to cause trouble if she so desired. It was an apt description of the matters to say that Rhaella Targaryen favoured her oldest son over her second and third children and that her lord husband had, might be to spite her, favoured the second born of their offspring. Rhaegar had not helped matters by defying his father's will on certain occasions, Arthur was sure.

"And where do you suppose he should be sent? Which lord would dare make good use of the time for which he kept the Prince?" It was no easy task. They needed someone with a will of steel, harder even, and twice as much impudence.

"There are always rifts to mend," Jaime pointed out helpfully.

Arthur had known the lad since he'd been trust unto the Kingsguard's shoulders. Never once had he made such politically inclined statements. The meaning, after all, was hard to ignore. For answer, however, he nodded his head. "That is the King's worry to have. Let us concern ourselves with worthier pursuits."

"And which pursuits would that be?" Lewyn questioned, holding out the cup they'd been sharing. Arthur filled it. "I trust you do not mean to set the realm to order now that the matter of Prince Viserys has been so thoroughly discussed."

"Nay, but I mean to set us to order by all means." He stood to his feet and pushed the carafe in Jaime's hands. "There must be some more cups somewhere here. Where are those squires when they are needed?" To have two squires and none available when the time came for them to serve. He would have a word with Rhaegar upon the matter.

"They sleep, I reckon. Wiser heads than ours," the Dornish Prince spoke just loud enough to be heard. Arthur was fairly certain he'd downed half the contents of the cup. The man could drink. Such skill was enviable. Arthur himself had never lasted to more than three gallons, though he'd been drinking wine for most of his life.

"I would not say that as such. Might be in possession of good fortune," Ser Jaime yawned. "When is the King returning?" Arthur looked over his shoulder to see the youngest knight eying the bed. He refrained from sharing any knowledge with the cub, however. No need to be that cruel.

"Ser Jaime, do not even think about it. You've had a whole day to sleep." The dutiful Lewyn saved them.

"A full day is never enough," the lion complained.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Loose Ends Tied Together

 

 

 

 

 

 

Willas leaned his weight against the crutch, eyes upon Benjen Stark. “If she be a woman wedded, then there is little reason in worrying over her safety. You said so yourself, Lord Rosby was more than pleased to have her enter his house. Or is it that my sister has left more than a passing impress upon you, ser?” He’d not asked it in an unkind manner. It was rare enough than anyone spoke to him unkindly these days. They treated him as if he were little more than an invalid. Which to be entirely fair, Willas was aware was the truth.

Lips pressed together, he contemplated the words of the young wolf. Why was it that he had fixated upon Lady Baratheon, or Rosby as the case may be. She had been courteous enough, but anyone with eyes could see she did nor care for him in any capacity. “I made her a promise.” A weak excuse, he perceived, but one which Benjen Stark nodded his head at. “I wanted to know whether her interest still lied in the offer.” To think he had missed here only by a few days. Fate was truly cruel.

“I am certain my sister is constant in her interests,” Benjen claimed, eyes darting towards one of the corners. “And I see that she is not the only one.” He smiled broadly at whoever stood behind them. “Come out of the shadows. ‘Tis hardly the thing, I know, but even enemies can be friendly every now and again.”

Willas would have turned himself to see the identity of the intruder, but he feared that such a move would throw him even more off-balance. He was not kept waiting for long, however. From his left stepped into the line of sight none other than Prince Oberyn’s very own mistress.

Ellaria Sand smiled softly up at Benjen. “I hardly think you and I are enemies.” She turned her eyes upon him. “I have come to see how you fare on this day, Ser Tyrell. The pain has lessened, aye?” He nodded. With all the milk of the poppy they’d been pouring down his throat, it was no surprise. “And you have even taken to your feet. I am glad for it.”

That and the tenuous understanding the King had somehow managed to form between their houses. “I expect I shall soon be back to my old self,” he allowed the platitude to slip past his lips. “You must forgive me for seeming the village idiot here, but why would the two of you be at odds?”

“Ice and sand can only ever yield mud,” the wolf hurriedly cut in, “and who has ever enjoyed mud, I ask you.” He laughed heartily and she smiled. Willas held back a sigh. It seemed one of those matters that were not to be discussed. “But the fair lady and I may well come to some understanding, shall we not?” At that Benjen glanced towards the paramour. Her dutiful nod was answer enough.

“And since we bear one another no ill will, sers, I shall take a moment to let you know His Grace, Prince Oberyn is on his way here as we speak.” So that was how matters stood. Willas offered a half-grin as Benjen’s eyebrow rose.

He had heard, as most other had by that point, Willas was certain, about a potential affinity between the King and Lady Lyanna. He had not though the Dornish Prince would be sour about it though. For some odds reason, he’d thought the matter would be treated with some discretion. Not only for the sake of Queen Elia and her infants, but for the very prestige of House Martell. The Stark, old house that they were, could not hold that much sway on account of their long absence from King’s landing. Might be he was missing something.

“Is he, indeed?” Benjen questioned out loud, presumably upon Oberyn Martell’s approach. “Then I suspect there is some corner of the keep where I am needed.” He made a show of listening about. “Ah, I think I hear my name.” His exaggerated behaviour had the desired effect. Willas chuckled. “Then I am off, good ser. I shan’t forget to ask my sister about that offer of yours. You have my word.”

“Was he long with you?” Ellaria Sand questioned, her arm working around his, to holding him up. “I did not know you were close with Lord Stark’s son.”

Willas shook his head. “I would not call us close. He was kind enough to show interest in my welfare.” Might be even upon the command of his lord father. “Now that we know how I am upon this day, how do you do, my lady?” She was a pleasant enough sort, if a bit too sweet in her approach. He supposed it was habit to her, to show so much favour; but even so, the overtness put him on edge at times.

“I am well, as ever.” One could not deny, however, that her bedside manner was impeccable. “Are you certain you would not sit?” Every maester of the keep had it for him; he’d been seated for far too long, until his own skin had started feeling uncomfortable. Willas shook his head in refusal. “How thoughtless of me,” the Dornishwoman sighed. “You have been stuck abed for far too long.”

The sound of footsteps echoed through the corridors. Ellaria looked over her shoulder. “And here he is.” Her attention was then riveted to the new arrival.

Oberyn himself favoured her with a warm look, before shifting his attention to Willas. “Finally escaped the bed, have you? We were starting to fear.”

Willas was willing to bed they’d not feared half as much as he had. Nonetheless, he nodded politely, murmuring his gratitude along with some meaningless drivel meant to fill the silence. He was certain there would come a day, someday, hopefully soon, when he’d not feel as he did on this day. If only the Seven would be so kind and grant him an escape.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Myles’ contrite look would have been more than enough to calm Rhaegar once upon a time. No longer. His Queen was even less likely to take well to the look, should one pay the slightest of attentions to her. It was more the trouble that bothered him, however. “Is that so?” he questioned of his squire, fingers still wrapped around his quill. The feather passes with a ghost-whisper beneath his chin.

Richard gave him a look over Myles’ shoulder, as it to ask what he wished to find out. It was clear that Myles had been with the girl. Myles, for his part, could but nod his head. Elia’s lady-in-waiting split her attention between her mistress and her lover. Elia herself looked at him expectantly.

Rhaegar turned his gaze upon the girl. How old was she, truly? He inspected her countenance for a few moments, in silent deliberation. His lady wife chose that moment to speak. “This is unpardonable, Your Majesty. I will not suffer to have any of my companions treated in such a manner. If words get out, then what shall the poor girl do?”

Word had likely already spread. He remained seated, electing not to offer an immediate reply to the Queen. She’d known well enough the consequences of dragging the lovers before him. That she tried to mitigate the guilt by showing compassion to the victim was not something he desired to contemplate.

“Myles,” he called out to the squire, “kneel.” Confusion spread on the man’s features. He looked helplessly on, going as far as to turn to Richard for help. “Nay, Myles, Richard can do naught for you in this. Kneel.”

Seeing no manner of escape, his squire did as he was told. He lowered his weight upon his knees and looked up at him. Rhaegar stood then. He walked around the desk and glanced at his lady wife. “What punishment do you think fitting then, my Queen, for his behaviour?”

She held his gaze for just a moment before looking away. “He has shamed my lady-in-waiting and cast dirt upon my good name. I leave it to Your Majesty to decide of a fitting punishment.” He nodded at her answer, leaving her be for the moment.

Once more looking at the lady who had brought it all upon them, he finally addressed her. “And you, my lady, what do you think his punishment should be?”

In a transport of fear, she fell to her knees before him, clasping her hand in front of her, as if in prayer. “Your Majesty, I pray you, do not punish him. I went with him of my own free will. We had even agreed to speak to my father.”

“But my lady wife tell me that you were frightened? Come, do not hide. If my squire has taken leave of his sense and forgotten the righteous path, then surely, he stands a head too tall for the world to bear.” Myles tried to speak but was swiftly stopped. “I do not wish to hear a word from you,” Rhaegar let him know, his façade not slipping an inch.

“I would never accuse Her Majesty of lying,” she gasped, hands twisting inwards to rest over her heart.

“Then you must not have been willing,” he cut her off before she could continue.

“Nay. The Queen was mistaken. I took fright at the creaking of the door, not at Myles. He would never harm me,” the woman jumped to her lover’s defence. She reached out, catching him by the sleeve. “My lord father refused to allow me to wed him, Your Majesty. In truth, we were planning to elope.”

Pulling his sleeve away from her grasp, Rhaegar gazed at Elia. “There, my Queen, it seems the mystery has been solved now and no one intended to harm your good name.” Then he looked at the lovers. “Nonetheless, harm has been done. This cannot be left so.” He lifted one hand. “Richard, my sword.”

“Your Majesty,” his companion murmured, a look of unrest in his eyes. Still, he turned and retrieved the weapon even as Elia’s lady-in-waiting jumped to her feet, inching towards Myles.

“Your lord father protests Ser Mooton’s position, does he not?” he questioned. Startled, the woman nodded her head, stopping. ”Let us then get the impediment out of our way.” He’d known the moment he heard the confession falling from the woman’s lips that he could do little more. “Myles Mooton, it is high time you relegated your position.”

Turning the sword sideways, the rested the thick of it on the squire’s right shoulder. “In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave.” The sword moved to the left shoulder. “In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just.” Again, the blade travelled to its erstwhile position. “In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend all young and innocent.” Steel touched the left side a second time. “In the name of the Maid, I charge you to protect all women.” And on he went through the Smith, Crone and Stranger. “And this,” he paused briefly to look into his friend’s face, “is so that you may remember your vows.” The back of his hand slapped against the kneeling man’s cheek. “Rise a knight, Ser Myles of House Mooton.”

It was not quite the thing to knight a man whit so small an audience, but needs must,, Rhaegar understood, and the quicker he removed the danger, the better. Undoubtedly such close a bond had seen more than a few exchanged whispers. That was one thing Rhaegar had no need of at the moment. Although, it was a pity to let Myles go.

Rising to his feet, Myles bowed deep before him. “Your Majesty, words are not enough to express my gratitude.

“You may do so by wedding this lady here, whose virtue now depends on you,” he answered back easily. “My Queen, if you would be so kind as to write to her father. I would do it myself, but I fear she was not placed in my care.”

“Your Majesty,” Elia’s woman curtsied as well, stepping up at Myles’ side. “I shan’t forget your kindness.” Then she turned to the Queen. “I shan’t forget the great care you had for me either.”

Rhaegar nodded his head and bade them leave. “You as well, Richard. I would speak to my lady wife alone.” Elia had clammed up tight, looking at him with something akin to annoyance. They had not exchanged more than a dozen words since Lyanna had left and he had been hoping the situation would mend by itself, but Elia would not relent.

Someone had to give in. And it might as well be him. It would not be the first time.

Once they stood just the two of them, he allowed her to sit. “Have a care, lady wife, with your conduct in such circumstances. You ought to listen to both sides.” He suspected she thought he’d put Myles up to it and that was why her reaction had been so harsh. “Elia, this cannot go on.”

She grimaced up at him. “I am not the one who has thrown our vows in the mud and carelessly trampled upon them,” she pointed out implacably. “Nor have I continued engaging in hurtful conduct, a careless of who witnessed such behaviour.”

“Have I not explained this to you, lady wife. I love her. What do you want of me? An apology?” He shrugged helplessly, unsure himself if he was willing to do that. It was a matter of pride, first and foremost. And then, one had to take into account that Lyanna had left on rather poor terms with him.

“Would you mean it?” the Queen questioned, fixing him with a hard stare. He dared not inspect the look in her eyes too closely.

“Nay.” Better to be truthful in that instance, he thought. “I do not regret my feelings for her. Only the inopportunity of them.”

Elia chuckled, the bitter sound filling the space between them. “Spoken like a man. Very well, I shan’t ask for an apology then. But I demand something else. If you would have peace between us, that is.” Her shrewd eyes remained locked on him. “You must accept all of my terms.”

He would have smiled were he not in his current mood. “Speak your terms and then we shall see. I have terms on my own, after all.” She did not seem to enjoy hearing that; her lips curled, eyelashes fluttering. “Well, my Queen. Will you speak?”

A nod of the head was his answer. Elia straightened her shoulders, her mien taking on a determined cast. “I am your wife, before the Gods and the realm. I am your Queen also, crowned alongside you. And I am the daughter of a noble line. As such, I demand to be treated with the respect my position grants me.“ He nodded. “Publicly, I am second to none, Rhaegar. No matter what you feel in your heart.”

“Of course,” he allowed, gesturing vaguely with his hand for her to go on.

“If you so choose to continue your liaisons, then I demand they be carried on decently.” He refrained from pointing out that she had been the one making mountains out of molehills. “And I do not want your mistress, whoever she may be, kept here in King’s Landing. Go to her, if you must, but do not bring her before my eyes.”

It was better than he had been hoping for. Once more, he nodded his understanding and acceptance. Elia went on. “And I want something else as well. I want another child.”

So much for matters not being complicated. “The first two I can agree with, my Queen,” he said, putting the appropriate distance between them in response to her attempt at closeness. “But your third stipulation poses quite the problem. Elia, you know very well the dangers of the birthing bed.”

“When I had Rhaenys,” she began, “I thought I would die. I thought I would meet my end in a pile of bloodied sheets. When I gave life to Aegon, the maesters thought I would die. They told you as much. And I survived. They said I was not likely to bear again, but I did. And I had Daeron. I am hale and healthy. And I tell you I want another child.”

The thought of bedding down with her; Rhaegar swallowed his misgivings. “Then you do this for yourself, lady wife. I neither want, nor need another heir from you. The risk is entirely yours.” Out of all the things she could have asked of him, why did it have to be that? Was she trying to maintain some semblance of desire between them?

“I am well aware,” Elia responded. “I do not expect aught else but what I have asked for. Had it been within you to love me, you would have done so by now.” The implication stung. Rhaegar let it go. “What of you, what terms would you bring to me?”

“No scenes, lady wife. It is clear we are not of a like mind, by now, and to suffer further in an attempt to deny it is needless. If I so choose to go, you shall look the other way and pretend ignorance. In exchange, I shall bring nothing of my affair back with me. That is the only demand that I have to make” It mattered little after all where he could be with Lyanna, as long as the possibility existed and even he had to admit that carrying further on with her in the Red Keep would have given rise to many a question. Not to mention the gossiping servants and the possibility of such news reaching more sensitive ears.

“Aye; that seems a fair trade to me.” She rose from her seat. “Then we are understood, Rhaegar.”

“We are understood, Elia.” He allowed her to pass by him, returning to his seat.

A sense of calm enveloped him. As if having settled matters with his lady wife made it all more bearable. All he had left to do was find a way to placate Lyanna.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Darya eyed the other woman suspiciously. “And why would I do anything of the sort, my lady? Your brother is more than capable of looking out for himself.” She smiled at the Dornishwoman. How different a brother and sister could be. “Unless, of course, you find my presence offensive in some manner.” A sly look came to the other’s eyes

“Indeed, I do not. I am but looking out for my brother, as I have told you,” She sat down on the bench as well, the slight protrusion at the level of her middle clearer. “You must understand that this alliance is a strange thing for me. I have never thought that my brother would be so very intrigued by courtly matters.”

Courtly matters were the very last that of Arthur’s problems. “I would lie if I said I was not as surprised. It was not my intention to remain here past the tourney’s end. Your brother is a very persuasive man. And I must confess I cannot in good conscience leave now. You are no stranger, I am certain, to the situation of our common friend.”

Ashara laughed. “I am almost afraid there is no more situation at all to speak of.” Darya nodded in understanding. “She was quite angry when she left.”

“Nay; that was hurt. Not anger.” She gazed into the Dornishwoman’s open face. “You shall be a mother yourself soon enough.” Although not for a few more moon turns. But still, Darya was sure it was a close enough thing for some maternal attachment to have formed. “Would you wish to be parted from your babe?”

“I have the good fortune of having a simple ser for my lover and husband and not a king. The matter is vastly complicated by this last part.” Raven tresses fell over her shoulder as she shifted her position. “I suspect it does not help that Stark and Targaryen are of uncommon obstinacy.”

“It is the Valyrian blood, mark my words, that makes the King act thus.” Or the Targaryen insanity. It was entirely debatable. “If you should ever happen in that part of the world, you must remember that decorous courtly conduct is all a matter of speech to them, rather than act.” Not that she thought the woman would ever have such a change. Her spouse did not seem the sort that would relish such adventure. “I daresay I miss it very much. All these chivalry that dominates His Majesty’s court is growing tedious.”

The dark haired female managed a smile that was both sardonic and understanding. “I had though to blame the blood of the First Men. It is of equal potency; I should know.”

Fixing her with a cool look, Darya displayed her amusement. “Let us see then, which one of them gives in first. Then we shall have our answer.”

“I do believe that is just the thing.” Lady Ashara took to her feet. “Why do I get the sense that you find pleasure in this?”

“What else is there to find pleasure in?” she questioned after a long moment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) ABBABABAAAABBABAABAA BAABABAABBBAAABABAAAABABAAABAABAABA ABBBAAABAB BAABBAABBBAABAA AABBBAAAAAABBAAABBAAAABAABAAAB AAAAAABBABAAABB AAAAA BAABAABABABABAAABABBABABB BAABBAABBBAABAA BAABBAABBBABBBABAAABABBAB AABBABAAABABBBABABBABAABA BABBAABAAABAABBAABBBABAAAABBAB AAAABABABBABBBAABBBAAAABB BAABAABBBBABAAAABABBABABBBAABA BABBAABAAABAABBAABBBABBBABABAABAABB 
> 
> 2) AAAAABAABA AAAAAAAAABABBBABABABAABAA BAABAABBBA AAAABAABAAABABBABBBABABBA BAABBAABBBAABAA BAABAAABBBAAAAAAAABBABBBABABBABAABA AAABAABBBAABBABAABBABAAABAABAAAABBAAAAAABAABBAABAA BAABBABBBAAABBAAABAABAABBAABBBAABAABAAAB AABABABBBABAAAB AAAAA ABABBAAAAABAABABAABB AABBBABBBABABAABAAAB AAAABAABAAAABABABBBABAAABAABAA BAABBAABBBAABAA AABBABAAABAABAAAAAAABAABB AAABBABAAABABABABAAAAAABBAABAA BAABAAABAABAABBBAABA BAABBAABBBAABAAABBAA AAAAAABBBBAAAAABAAABBAABB


	3. A Glimpse

 

 

 

 

 

 

The wheelhouse came to an abrupt halt, jolting Lyanna in her seat, but more so unsettling her stomach further. Hand to her mouth, she prayed the gods the unreasonable nausea would magically fade away and leave her as she had been before. The interesting thing happened to be that in the morning she had felt naught of the sort. Given a few more hours, she was ready to cast her accounts upon the beautifully woven rug on the floor.

Lord Rosby levelled a dispassionate stare her way. “Your lady wife seems as if she could use some fresh air,” he let his brother know. Gyles was not necessarily a bag man, in fact, Lyanna liked his inapproachability on two grounds; the first was that he would never presume to be her friend and thus would not expect anything from her other than a greeting over breaking their fast together, and the second, she would not feel inclined to make any confessions to him. “Travelling is rather tiring, is it not?” he questioned, absently running his fingers through his hair. “I believe I shall take some air as well.”

He allowed her and Gylem without first, following after a few moments. Gylem nodded to his brother and taking her by the arm, led Lyanna to a line of tress. “If my lady feels the need, we can make this a longer stop. You are too pale.” His comment earned him an empty look from her. “You are still upset.”

At the very least he could read her well. Lyanna sighed. “I am tired. My good-brother has the right of it. Such travelling is exhausting.” Of course she was still upset. Upset enough to be cursing Rhaegar’s name in her mind every few moments. Jon would not find his place in King’s Landing without her. He was only a boy, and he still had much need of her. And he had nearly died. Why Rhaegar insisted on keeping him close in spite of her rather vocal opposition, she could not fathom. The issue remained that he had refused her request both as a father and as a king to take the child with her. He knew very well, damn him, that Jon was in danger. The persistent, odious idiot. He would not be satisfied until her son was gravely injured.

“Lyanna, do not weep.” Soft silk moved against her face, wiping away at a stray tear that has somehow managed to slip down her cheek. “We shall send out a raven as soon as we’ve reached Rosby Hall, I promise you.” The thought consoled her in some measure. She wiped at the nonexistent tears as well. Pregnancy had turned her into a watersieve. “Let us walk awhile. That should clear your head.”

It was not her head that needed clearing though. It was her heart. Like most troubles did, and naturally they should come from such a place, hers had to do with that one organ which one by ripping out handed one’s own self over to the sweet embrace of death. That unfortunate fact left Lyanna quite without options. She ought to turn the wheelhouse back around and give Rhaegar a good shake. Still, having proceeded to pass the half mark of the way, she feared it was too late for that, where one put that she would soon be travelling to Winterfell. Best not to complicate matters further. And the gods knew it was better for a child to be in the care of a competent king than in that of an insane mother. And she had little doubt such a label would stick.

Giving Gylem her hand, Lyanna stepped carefully over a rock threateningly protruding from the soft earth, its head springing through the layer of dirt. The moss that had grown over it masked it from one side. Fortunately, Lyanna was on its other side and could see the truth clearly enough. The two of them made their way past the first line of trees and into the following copse. It was not a wide forest that hid them from view, but rather a cluster of trees giving the impression of intimacy. It was enough to put her at ease for the moment. Somewhere ahead she could hear wildlife, leaves rustling with tiny movements and noises coming from beasts all around. Well, Lyanna hoped they did come from beasts and not hidden ruffians waiting to happen upon the gold pot of the day. Not to mentioned, she hadn’t any gold on her to give away.

Fortunately, such tales became less and less heard of. If one could highlight a positive aspect of King Aerys’ reign, it was that thievery landed one swinging from a high branch. Lyanna had little to say to oppose that. And it had worked spectacularly in ridding the countryside of pesky looters. As she contemplated the benefits of a monarch such as the late one, Lyanna’s thoughts departed from her own sorrow. Not completely, for such could hardly be achieved, but rather it left her not wishing to spill blood. Admirable achievement, especially for such a delicate subject, she admitted to herself.

Ser Rosby was speaking to her by the time she afforded him her attention. ”Is it not better?” She responded to that with a nod of the head so minute she feared he’d not taken notice of it. But her fear had been misplaced. Gyles accepted her answer and was content to ramble on without requiring her participation. It was rather nice, to be able to just listen. She supposed it must be the strain of the last period making her so amenable.

“I suppose you will need some time to grow accustomed to the surrounding lands as well,” Gyles was saying, voice nearly losing itself in her own stream of thought. “All will turn out fine, my lady. I have no doubt about it.”

It was good that at least one of them did not. Lyanna offered a vague smile, forcing her lips to curl ever so slightly. Had he been speaking of something she aught to be aware of? “I am certain you have the right of it.” Hand still in his, they made their way to a thin sliver of water dashing across the flatland. He was exceedingly kind and she was not certain how to cope with such behaviour. Not that kindness bothered her, but rather the implication that she could do little to repay him. A sense of pride, she considered, letting go of him to kneel by the brook. Her palm met the surface and she released a breath she did not know she’d been holding. “So cold.” It was pleasant in a sense.

“Have a care, my lady. Strong a swimmer as I am, if you fall in, I fear freezing before I can save you,” her companion jested. Lyanna laughed and looked over her shoulder at him. “You do not believe me?”

“Only on the matter of freezing I suspect no tampering, ser. On all else, I am unconvinced.” He frowned, eyes twinkling. “Besides, I am a competent swimmer myself. I daresay I could pull us both to the bank.”

“Now that sounds like tampering to me.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“And I have heard news of you all the way to Rambton,” Sella told him, the same mischievous look in her face as when she’d sneak through the halls to come to him. She clucked her tongue, eyes still upon him. “Janos even tried to keep the gossip from me. Your Majesty, a word of advice, in the future, when you pick a spouse for one of your lovers, choose a man who does not think so lowly of himself that he would need to resort to that.”

“And on whom do you think I shall practice this wonderful words of wisdom?” he drawled, not bothered that she’d went on to steal a lemon cake from a tray and break it into small pieces. Sella’s best attributes were her hands, after all. She chewed. “I do not keep an army of your like somewhere in the shadows of the Red Keep.”

She licked the stickiness off of her thumb. “Might be not in the shadows of the Red Keep. But I daresay Maegor’s Holdfast would have shadow more amenable and better suited to the coffers.” She placed her hand in her lap, the other picking up a second piece of sweetmeat. “Or is it that your dear wife will not permit for such activities so very near her? Are you certain she is Dornish after all?”

“I am certain I should not like to see you in an unpleasant situation,” he answered. “Whatever was is now in the past. I hope you know that.” She gave him a dry smile and pulled something from beneath the hemline of her dress. The pendant dangled between her fingers. “Gryselle,” he found himself warning her.

“I have not forgotten. How could I?” Her assurance did not help the matter. “But between that and wishing there is a wide, wide gulf. And you did promise that if I ever had need of anything,” she trailed off. “Come, Your Majesty, for old times’ sake.”

“What exactly is it that you need?” All the women in his life seemed to be determined to see him flung into an early grave. Why it should astonish him that Sella was the same, Rhaegar was certain he did not wish to know.

“What I have always needed.” That made it all the more clear. “Nothing extraordinary. A helping hand, Your Majesty, is certainly not too much to ask. I wish my sister to wed well and for that we need to keep such company as to promote a good match. I cannot do that at Rambton. Surely there is something which can be found that would keep us here for a little time.”

One trouble after another, Rhaegar thought. But then, if Melda was anything like Sella, she would do admirably. And then, the idea came to him. “What if I have a request of my own to make?” Her smile widened and she nodded. “How skilled of a mummer is your sister?”

“Skilled enough to fool the High Septon himself,” she offered unabashedly. Which Rhaegar was glad for. “Why exactly does she need those skills?”

“Pretty fools have been known to loosen tongues.” Understanding dawned upon Sella’s face. “Naught too much,” Rhaegar assured her, the peremptory quality of his voice not lost on him. “A smile here and there and a good bit of attention towards the Stormlander lords at court and Tywin’s retinue.”

“There is a high price she may pay for such,” Sella pointed out, her heavy braids swinging with her movement. “Father shall expect a very good match. Unconditional support is important, is it not?”

The question was how important. Important enough to reach the deal Sella proposed? Melda was certainly young and beautiful and if she proved herself useful, he supposed many a lord could make a worse match. However, he could give no promise. “And you want nothing for yourself?” he questioned, buying himself some more time.

“Naught that Your Majesty would be willing to give.” At least she was frank about it. “Curiosity is killing me though, I wish to ask a very inappropriate question.” The best sort of questions there were, Rhaegar surmised before nodding his head. Never a dull moment with Sella for company. “I have heard that my successor has caused quite the conflict between husband and wife. Did you truly cherish her that much?”

“Sella, Sella,” he sighed, not entirely certain he wished to answer, “that confrontation had been a long time coming. With or without her, the wound would have burst at some point. She did fan the fire a great deal.”

“And you still defended her,” she contemplated out loud. “If it had been me, would you have done the same?” Women, forever comparing themselves with others. He kept silent for a few moments. “You would not have, would you?”

Would he have defended her as he had Lyanna? Nay; that much he knew from the very beginning. Yet he would have defended her somehow, he supposed. “You are not her. You are Sella. I have never known you to need me in such capacity.”

“And she does?” Might be not. Rhaegar hardly knew whether Lyanna needed him or not. The point of the matter was that he wished to defend her. “Or at least does she need it to be safe from your lady wife?”

Since Elia would never truly harm Lyanna, Rhaegar doubted that. “She is not here to say otherwise, is she?”

“Same old stubborn Rhaegar,” Sella concluded, a pleasant glow to her face. “I feel as if I should warn you though,” she sighed, pushing one of her braids over the shoulder. “Lady Elayne has been recently widowed. And if I, in my ignominy, dare come before you, you can be certain that she as well will make her appearance soon enough. I hear she gave her lord husband no heir and the family was not entirely pleased.”

“As free you that mouth of yours as always, I see,” he jested. “Might be that shadow on Maegor’s Holdfast may yet be put to good use.” They both laughed, a sense of calm stealing over him. The familiarity of Sella and their escapades was surely at fault. “I daresay I shall have to abstain from including you. Your husband does not seem the sort that would take well to it.”

“I am crushed.” She meant it with about as much sincerity as the fox protecting a nest of chicks would. Rhaegar had to smile at that. “There you go, reading me like one of your books. You really have learned nothing about women, haven’t you?”

“I have tried my best, Sella,” he said in a mock-reproved manner. “A man can only do so much.” Which was about as true as her sentiment had been earlier. “But now that you are here, I am certain you can help me improve.” Or drive him mad trying. Whichever was achieved with more ease.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The scratching noises grew louder and louder, pushing sleep to the back of Jon’s mind. He shuddered, drawing the cover of his head, trying not to allow fear into his heart. Easier said than done. He gulped softly at the loud creak splitting the silence apart with its shrillness. Might be it was that shadow again, the one haunting his night terrors. although, truth be told, since mother had gone, the shades did not visit. Might be they had grown bored when they saw he had no one to run to anymore.

Another creak startled him, this time causing Jon to sit upright. He turned to look over his shoulder and barely stifled a groan. “What are you doing here?” he hissed at the approaching figure, clutching its fine porcelain-skinned doll. “Go back to your own bedchamber.”

But he was to be ignored in his own rooms. Daenerys pouted. “I had a bad dream. I’m scared.” as if that was supposed to soften his heart. Jon was just about to repeat his request when the moonlight brought to his attention the tears in her eyes. He had had his fair share of night terrors and knew well enough what it was to awake in tears. And if he gazed at her with enough attention, indeed it seemed that her hair stuck to her face in wet pieces. His lips moved but nothing came. She could not be in his chamber, or rather she could not be found in his chamber, Jon considered. Even he knew that. Why didn’t she?

Still, he moved backwards and she climbed up, stumbling when she was finally up. Her chin hit the head of the doll and she cried out. The tip of her tongue struck out and in a fairly incomprehensible manner she let him know that she had bitten her tongue, before slipping beneath the covers.

“You should have woken your septa up,” Jon let her know a moment later, after he had retreated a safe distance away and erected a two-pillow wall between them. Daenerys sniffled and muttered something that was lost in her own pillow. “The next time this happens wake her up, not me.”

“But she’s mean,” the Princess complained louder. “She yells at me if I wake her up.” From the breaking of her voice, he could tell she was weeping. “I hate her and I wish she went away.” Jon couldn’t exactly say he did not understand. The septa was, to be fair, a grim woman with little enough kindness to pass to those around her. He would hate her too if he had to spend time with her. To his great turn of fortune, however, he was to share lesson with the Prince.

He gave no answer to the complaint Daenerys uttered. Instead, he buried his head into the pillow and tried to relax. Silence reigned until the girl began shifting. “Jon, are you sleeping?” If he didn’t answer, she might think he was. “My gratitude. That was all–”

Before she could finish, however, the door creaked open again and a dishevelled looking young Prince stood there. “What are you doing here?” Aegon demanded on the girl reclining on the bed. “This is Jon’s bedchamber.”

Jon sat up. “Your Grace had a night terror too?” he asked, hoping that it was not the case. His own night terrors were enough to deal with, he did not need those of others.

Aegon snorted. “Nay. Even if I had, why would I come here?” His genuine confusion matched Jon’s. He had done all he could to dissuade the Princess from following hi around. But she seemed fixated. He was half afraid of what she would do if he let her be. “Pryatis and Darys are uneasy.”

Darys had been uneasy ever since mother left, as for Pryatis, he simply followed the lead of the first. “They made their way into the halls once more,” Aegon explained. “And now they wait by the stairs. I figured they wanted you to come along too,” he pointed at Jon as he spoke. “Come.” The imperious note of the word was met with a scowl from Daenerys as Jon scrambled over the pillow wall and onto the floor, searching for his shoes.

“I don’t want to stay here alone,” the Prince’s aunt said, looking from one to the other. Her lip curled once again. If she started crying, she would bring the entire Red Keep on their heads. Or at the very least Maegor’s Holdfast. “I am coming too.”

There were two choices. They could refuse to have her along and then they too would likely be unable to continue as they were, or they could allow her to come and be about their business undetected. Jon looked at Aegon and Aegon at him. “You can come,” they said in unison Better the devil one knew, Jon surmised after a heartbeat in which the girl, still clutching her doll, slid out of bed, putting her own footwear on.

As Aegon had predicted, the two beastling lingered by the stairs, tails wagging. Jon felt no sign of excitement from them, but rather a repressed fear. Something was, as Aegon had pointed out, not well. What to do then but follow the dragons to wherever they wished to go? In the morning they would speak to whoever needed to be spoken to. It had worked so well before. A second try should yield the same results.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAABBBABBAABBBA AABBBAABAAAAAAAAAABBBAABA ABAAAABBAB ABBBAABBABAABAA ABBAAABBBABAAABAABAA BAABBABBBA AABBAABBBA


	4. Slowly Creeping In

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her teeth were clattering, the noise distracting Jon from following Darys. Pryatis has jumped upon Aegon’s shoulder, content to be carried the rest of the way. Darys, however, had not even wished to be touched. He’d hissed at Jon and snapped its jaws, electing the lead the party out into the yard. Maegor’s Holdfast had certain points that could provide very much entertainment, to Jon’s recollection, however, there was hardly aught a dragon might hold so fiercely to heart that it would feel the need to wake the whole keep. Darys looked over his winged shoulder to him and croaked.

From behind him, Daenerys let out a whimper, on the heels of her complaint about being cold, he surmised when he heard the Prince snort. She had fisted her hand in the back of his tunic and she dragged at the materials whenever they stopped, which was more often than Jon had thought they would. It was beginning to get annoying.

“Where are they taking us?” she questioned for what felt like the hundredth time. “I want to go back.” Yet not on her own. Aegon had suggested that she do just that, to which the girl had simply clung all the tighter to Jon and refused. For whatever reason she seemed to think that he could aid her in some way. He would have happily explained to her that it was not the case, but he’d not found the chance to do so.

As such, they advanced together through the darkness, led by one dragon, since the other would not deign to get dust on its paws. Jon had a feeling that they were not going to explore something they had not seen before. And it was exactly that which put him on edge. On second glance everything seemed to appear different. Why should whatever it was they were being led to not follow the very same rules? The wall felt cold beneath his fingertips as he guided both himself and Daenerys forth, knowing that Aegon was close by, hanging on to the opposite wall.

“We should light the torch,” the Prince said after a few moments of silence. “Had anyone been following, they would have caught up by now.” It seemed to Jon that he disliked the darkness as much as he and the Princess. “Pryatis.” The invitation seemed to be enough for the dragon who let out a rivulet of fire. The random aim sent a few flickers his way as well, which Jon deflected with his hand.

“Have a care,” he managed to say over Daenerys’ shriek. At least they knew she had a great pair of lungs if anyone ever had need of her to call for help. Darys growled from ahead, as if in warning. But the torch was burning and it spread a faint light about. And with sudden clarity, Jon could recognise the location. And he seemed to not be the only one to do so.

“It wants us to go back to the chamber.” They had taken to refer to the underground, half-collapsed room in which they’d found the eggs as the chamber. The designation was not used for any other location within the Red Keep between them and none had truly wished to go back there. “Why?”

Jon shrugged. He tried to prod Darys into offering an answer, but all he received for his efforts was a vague sense of irritation. He supposed that the poor dragon did not wish to alarm them and yet, by holding back, it was doing just so. Or might be it was simply that it itself had little idea over why they needed to go back down. Whatever the case, the answer would not be given so easily.

The three of them continued their descent down the narrow path with a tad more confidence than before. Given that the destination was clear there was no fear of the unknown to cripple them. All the better to explore every last dusty corner of the chamber. Although what could possible have been left there? Aegon pointed to the entrance ahead of them. “They broke the wall.” Jon had had an easy time of getting in, others not so much; of course the larger persons would simply fins the next best solution.

Unguarded once all valuables had been taken from within, the chamber now stood empty, unoccupied shelves radiating a melancholy feeling. It was akin to seeing a weirwood without a face. Strangely appalling when one was used to carved faces. Jon trudged in after Aegon, Daenerys coming just behind him. They looked about for a few moments, trying to pinpoint the exact reason for which Darys had brought them down.

The dragons had other plans. Pryatis jumped down from Aegon’s shoulder and started circling around a patch of earth rising from the ground just slightly. Darys scratched the surface lightly, as if in invitation. “I the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms,” Aegon pointed out to his dragon, as soon as he figured out the point, “I don’t dig.”

The two beasts were not bothered by the refusal. Jon shuffled forth. “Might be there is a treasure buried there.” One companion snorted, the other clapped enthusiastically. “or something which might be of use to Darys and Pryatis.”

“Very well,” Aegon gave in after a few moments of consideration, ”but only because it might be of use.” They gathered around the protrusion and began pulling at the layer of dust and earth. Their work went on for some minutes, helping keep the three at ease, until something made its appearance from beneath the earth.

“Is that a bone?” the princess asked.

It did seem like a bone, but the end must have been broken, for its jagged edge looked particularly sharp. He tugged on it gently, trying to pry it from the earth’s soft hold. A scratching sound greeted his ears at that. “There is something next to it. Might be if we dig a wider whole.”

Which was what they ended up doing under the careful supervision of the two dragons that had climbed their way up one of the selves and stood there, eyes burning down upon the unfolding scene. Jon questioned Darys yet again on what it was they would find, but the dragon elected not to respond. Instead it swished its tail, as if to tell him to get on with his task. Under such warm gratitude so gracefully delivered, Jon found that he could only grumble a complaint, as the three of them brought to light what looked to be a large dragon corpse.

“Look at it,” Aegon marvelled, “it’s bigger than ours.” The decayed wings had a span larger than Jon’s arms thrown out. The dragon looked near grown as far as he could tell. And it has been dead for sometime, unlike others, the bones were not nearly as malleable, which was a sign of age. And yet there had been other dragon carcasses. What was special about the one before them?

“It’s holding something,” Daenerys pointed out, finger aimed towards a rounded shape, rock-like in appearance. She reached out for it, dusting away a layer of dirt.

It was another egg. The scales glinted in the torchlight, although the dull colour was a tad worrying.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The old man’s gnarled fingers were wrapped around the woman’s thin wrist, the babe she held with one arm still squirming. She met his eyes proudly, her thin lips pursing slightly. “What have they done now?” she questioned, nodding toward the other man and woman. “Attacked you on the road, have they?”

“It is usual for them to do so?” Brandon questioned, not certain whether he should be at ease with that or prepare his weapon. “A way of greeting among your people?” Her ice-blue eyes fixed him, a thin smile splaying upon her lips.

“Foolish hope.” By way of explanation, it was rather thin and revealed nothing. But the woman’s wrist was tugged upon a second time by the man lying abed who told her in a gruff voice something which Brandon could not, for the life of him, understand. The words sounded awfully familiar, as if he was supposed to somehow recognise them, and yet they fit no known language he’d ever heard. It was not High Valyrian, nor a bastard branch, not even a corruption of the Common tongue.

The carer climbed to her feet and shook her head. Further explanations were given in the same foreign tongue, the words flying about like arrows slung at warring enemies. Needless to say, familiarity did not aid Brandon in making sense of aught. He simply nodded towards Hawys who inched closer to him. “I can see,” he began, speaking over the other with his voice a perfect imitation of his own lord father’s when he was making a point, “that we have arrived at an inopportune moment. I think it best that we take our leave.” He’d thought the pair that led them here daft, but it seemed they were not even that. In fact, the way the woman with the babe had listened to them demonstrated quite the opposite.

“Nay, nay,” she hurried to say. “You mustn’t leave us now.” She stepped towards him and Hawys, just as Brandon took hold of the hilt in warning. She held one hand up. “I pray you, listen. I was hasty in my speech. But wait for me to explain,” she ended her plea with a word he could not recognise and took another step towards them. Her vague gesture towards the floor was taken as an invitation to sit, which Brandon accepted, prompting his companion to do the same. The other two sat as well and the old man was helped up against the wall.

“We thought this day would never come.” And Brandon thought he was slowly going insane. What that had to do with the current situation was unclear to him. “Guthrune and her brother claim you defeated them in combat.” They had been armed with wooden clubs. Brandon raised one eyebrow and nodded. The same task could have been accomplished by any other man with a sword, although he supposed that Guthrune’s bite would have earned her a sword through her midriff. Brother and sister, the woman had said of the two. An interesting development, but one not entirely arresting.

“And this day has been long awaited for, I presume.” He felt Hawys shift behind him, confusion and worry radiating off of her. “You ought to have sent them father South and the day would have come much sooner.” Might be he should make back to the path and see what other villages were about. There were bound to be others where the locals were not quite so entertaining.

The old man began speaking, stealing his attention off of the woman and her child. Brandon inspected the old leathery face with conscious effort, trying to deduce whether he was a foe or friend in the matter. He could deduce but little from his face. There were the general features, marking him a Northerner, by the high forehead and grey eyes. A film over said eyes indicated that age had blinded him and his inability to move suggested his spine had suffered in some form. None of that helped him at all though. Brandon’s eyes narrowed in a glare. The man had not finished his speech and his patience was running thin. He drummed his fingers against his knee.

Aught was afoot and he had the strange feeling that he had bitten off more than he could chew. “Might I inquire, what exactly is the reason for which we have been led here?” It occurred to him that if he did manage to make it out alive of this particular situation, he would advise his lord father to inspect the various curious villages strewn about the snows of the North. Might be see to the practices carried out in these small collectives. If at all possible, make it so they were not a threat. Certainly, that could only happen baring the situation in which he remained a guest.

“The old blood,” she aid, rather cryptically, “it flows through your veins. Do you not know that? Have you not been told?” Brandon envisioned the rest of his days in constant pain at her words. The old blood, it already sounded like one of Nan’s stories and he had not had aught strong to drink to soothe the ache he could already feel coming.

“Nay, I have not been told.” he almost rolled his eyes. “What is this old blood you speak of, woman?” Might be he should have listened to what the old woman had to say more often. He might have been able to make sense of what was being said.

As if to further demonstrate his point, the mother shook her head and sighed. “Her blood.” That was about as helpful as a short knife in a mêlée. “I can hardly believe they would not tell you about our mother. She gave us all life during those hours of darkness.” He was so very close to standing up and disappearing into the night. “The Night’s Queen has given us a gift. And only those of the old blood can wield it.”

Now that was something he had not expected. Brandon favoured her with a sharp glare. “The Night’s Queen,” he murmured. Hadn’t she been the one to nearly bring the North to its knees? A gift indeed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I cannot conceive of a more backward notion,” Darya said, hands on her hips. “If you wish to help, then you had best be prepared to do the work with your own hands. I am more than happy to warm your bed, Arthur, but I am not here to further any political agendas.”

“And yet you seemed perfectly content to aid Lady Lyanna.” The argument was leading nowhere, he realised. For whatever reason, she did not wish to aid and he could not impose it upon her. “Why is that?” Females and their way of rationalising, Arthur was not certain of the logic behind it. “That is as political a statement as you could possibly make.”

She pursed her lips and pushed his hand away. “There is naught political in my involvement. What Lady Lyanna chooses to do has naught at all to do with me. My advice was given from one woman to another.” And it was ultimately going to be used as a political weapon. He was certain that Lyanna’s return, and she would at some point return, would bring along more than its fair share of tumult. If she chose to lend ear to Darya, then it was quite clear what had gone on.

“If that helps you at all,” he allowed, pulling his tunic over his head. He clasped on his cloak and stood to his feet. “Just remember your words when the day comes.” His warning earned him her amusement. “You laugh now. Let us see what you shall do later.”

“I shall do as I’ve always done.” She stood as well still bereft of clothing. “You worry about this too much. Your King is more than capable of taking care of himself and what he wishes of those around him is his concern. Ser knight, might be what you need is to look at the world through a new pair of eyes.”

“Yours, you mean?” he questioned, the slight edge to his voice bringing about a cloud of annoyance upon her face. “You may choose to look at this as a thoroughly personal matter, but kings do not have personal lives. Everything revolves around the needs of the realm and how they can best exist alongside other more mundane worries.”Once more, he did not know why he explained the matter to her. Darya’s mind was made up. Naught he said would put her off the path.

“You spend too much time in court. Life is not for wasting on such matters.” She had in the meantime reached for her kirtle and was now tying her girdle. “And even if kings do not have personal lives, you cannot deny that they are human, so they have needs. And that, ser, I know more about than you do.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” She fixed him with a cold stare, the implication not sailing past her ears. It was good to know that she could still catch such small notes.

“There are times when I wish to maim you.” She sighed.

“Glad to be of some use.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You needn’t worry over them,” he assured her, fingers still lingering on her hip with the same insistence which could at times drive her into a fury. “The only danger they pose if to our beloved Queen.” Jaime grinned at her as if that ought to make her feel any better. “Why the long face?”

“Why the insistence on being doltish?” she snapped back, pulling away from him. “You know very well their presence is more trouble than it’s worth.” How was she to turn the King’s attention to her with that dratted Gryselle and her ample charms hanging so close about? Men were not known for their constancy, after all, or for their restraint. She could guarantee that the trollop had come specifically to gain favour with Rhaegar. “Think only if all thought to reach above their station in such a manner. What would that do?”

“Unfortunately, sister mine, such a solution is limited to those of us who have the necessary weapons. I grant you, if relying on my charms would win me aught but distrust and contempt, I should never bother to lift a finger again.” She grimaced at him. He was being simple-minded about the matter and she hadn’t the inclination to offer any form of correction. “Besides, what is it to you whether the King finds her charming or otherwise?” He leaned in and pulled her back to him. “Let his lady wife worry over that.”

For al the good that did. The Dornishwoman could worry all she liked, but her concern was ineffectual, her methods laughable and her failure incredibly entertaining to watch. That still did not sooth her. Cersei was not concerned so much with the fact that the King’s attention might fall to her buxom rival, as to the fact that those attentions might be engaged for a long period upon said rival. That would set her own plans back.

“You still do not understand.” She allowed him to embrace her. Better indulge him, lest he seek her out later. “Same old Jaime.” His lips touched her neck as he murmured his agreement against her skin. At the very least he could pretend he was interested in listening to her. No matter, he would be done soon enough. “Well, are we to sit here all night?”

“Only if that is your wish.” She pushed against his shoulder in mock-punishment. “And what would you have us do if not sit?”

Aught that would further her cause with the King. But she did not voice that to him. Once father arrived she would see how the wind blew and then a plan could be formed. Until that point, it was best to observe. “Lie down, might be. I hear it is very comfortable.” And very appropriate for what they were about to do. She wrapped her arms around him and pushed herself up. “Or should we forfeit our comfort?”

“Intriguing thought,” he answered, circling her waist. “I am all ears.” He held her gaze, a smile forming on his lips. She grinned back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAABAABBBAABBAAAABAABABBAAABBBAABAABAAABAABAA ABAAAABBAB BAABBAABBBAABAA BAAABAABAAAAABB ABABAAABAAAABAAABBBB BAABBAABBBAABAA ABBABAAAAAABAAAABABB ABAAABAABA AAABBBAAABABAAABABABAABAAABBAB AABABBABAABAAABBAABBAABBBAABAABAAAB ABAAAABBAB


	5. Unspoken

 

 

 

 

 

 

Purulent wounds made for a nauseating sight. In Hawys’ case they even conjured a cloud of light-headedness to make the young woman dizzy with it. Brandon shook his head and fixed the other woman whose name, Yordis, he still had trouble pronouncing. Better used to gruesome sights, Brandon had simply lifted the old man up, not paying mind to the striped skin. Her carried the invalid out into the cold night to another wooden construction. This building much resembled a crude hall. Upon its thatched roof snow had gathered, looking a think blanket. The icicles looked the consortium of a lething come at the shores of a great plane. The old runes carved into half-decayed and cracked wood gave him pause, just enough for Hawys to brush softly against his back. Brandon looked over his shoulder and gave her an encouraging nod.

Following Guthrune and Yordis inside, he came upon a long table at which a solitary man kept seat, a flagon in his hand. Yordis walked past the table and to him, hand upon his shoulder. She shook his gently, though it seemed to Brandon that the man did not sleep. And indeed, he looked up, face previously hidden by the shadows coming to light. There was very little remarkable about the even features of the man. His confusion came more as a surprise. Although, if Brandon thought about it, the sole reason for which a man might keep his own company with a flask in tow could only include spirits,

He helped the old man to a seat as Yordis spoke to the drunk in that tongue which Brandon could not understand much of. He then turned to Hawys and reached out his hand invitingly. She needed naught else to catch on and squeeze. Someone cleared their throat.

“So you are the one?” It was the man who spoke, his voice so thin that it sounded like the scratch of a cat against wood. He took a swing of his drink and put the flask down with a disgusted look. Brandon surmised that all the contents were gone.

Best to comply. “I would trust those who know better than I,” he allowed and sat down hesitantly. “I am told there is aught which needs my attention.” Hawys followed suit, sliding in close to him, eyes going from one woman to the other as far as Brandon could see.

The nameless man snorted. “Then look, oh mighty son of frost.” He staggered to his feet, nearly stumbling with the heaviness of a boulder. Yordis caught him and pushed him back. She said something to him; it sounded like nagging. Brandon almost felt sorry for the man. “Women,” he spoke back in the common tongue, “both my mother and her mother before her lived to ripe old ages with all their teeth still in place.” Yordis answered something impertinent as far as Brandon could tell. “Nay; because they kept their mouths shut.” He still struggled to his feet despite the protests of his woman. “You can come see, if it please you.”

Guthrune hid behind Yordis as the man passed by and mumbled something. It sounded almost like the wild growl of a wolf. He did not follow the man, instead looked at the wife for guidance. Yordis shook her head. “Helgi is not in the best of moods. But stay. He will bring what we need.”

And indeed, not long after the man returned with a voluminous bundle. He carried it with great care, hands beneath it, as if it were the most precious thing in the world. Brandon watched with curiosity as the bundle was deposited upon the table and continued his observation as the contents were unpacked. The grey tarp protecting the treasure was removed by Yordis with Guthrune’s help. They moved in sync, each one shying from touching the objects beneath. In the end they were left with a strange looking egged-shaped object.

But it could be no egg, Brandon reasoned, as it was covered neither in pristine shell nor in scales. Instead a translucent screen stood between them and what was inside. He tried to guess, but within, some dark liquid made it impossible to accurately make out a thing. Thus he had to rely on the knowledge of others. He looked at Yordis, expecting some for of explanation once more. Instead he was treated to a strange form of gesture-language from the other from which he understood little other than that he had to cut his palm open.

“And why, pray, would I do such a thing?” he demanded in a quiet voice.

Helgi slammed a copper hunting knife upon the table. “Just get on with it,” he commanded. It was clear that the lack of alcohol brought out his ire. A push more and he might be shedding the blood himself. Brandon scowled and pushed the blade away, his refusal clear.

“If you truly are of her line, than this belongs to you,” commented Yordis, calm as ever, pushing the knife back in his direction. “Feed it your blood and you’ve tied it to your kin.” But not to him personally; what an interesting notion.

Helgi laughed, a black sound suited for the plotting of a madman. “Aye , a small cut will do.” Brandon would have asked why he acted thus, but he was more interested in the strange object and what was inside of it. So he did as he was told. Picking up the blade he sliced a horizontal line across his palm and allowed the few droplets to roll off onto the thin film coming together in circular form.

Red stained the dark skin and slid down the slope until it landed upon the wood. Before their very eyes the film hardened into a more durable shell, its colour turning bone-white, a strong sound coming from within.

Not a word was said for a good few moments. Brandon imagined that like him, the others were much too taken aback by the outcome. Whatever sort of blood magic was at work, it was little like any other he’d heard of.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A truth universally acknowledged and oft repeated to the point where most people could, if woken from a deep sleep, parrot it back when asked, was that disappointment had a way of creeping up when one least expected it. That was to say, if one’s day was going marvellous, one had most certainly forgotten or left out something which carried a great deal of importance.

In Lyanna’s case, that something happened to be a curious artefact she may or may not have misplaced when her possessions were unceremoniously rammed into a trunk and loaded in a cart. A small sound of despair perched upon her lips as the bow of her mouth moved, just slightly to release her frustration when, lo and behold, the dratted thing had merely slipped past one of her kirtles, burying itself in a mound of soft material. Frustration turned into relief. She picked up the slight container and shook it, noting with some satisfaction that it felt full. It was gladdening to know she could count on her plans.

With a deft move, she pulled a third of her garments out of the way and pushed the bottle at the bottom of the trunk, eyes trying their best not to linger on the seal. One might suspect from such behaviour that some nefarious plans littered her mind. As for herself, she would justify her actions before the gods.

“Well, my lady, what do you think of your new chamber?” Gylem questioned, the upbeat tone of his voice dispelling any illusion she might have entertained that the solitude of her rooms would not be infringed upon with regularity.

Straightening, Lyanna wondered if she’d let the door open. She turned around and held out a hand in invitation. “I like it very well.” There was nothing not to like about it. The pale grey blocks of stone which the keep had been made of were evenly polished, worked after fairly recent masonry as far as she could tell, and the rugs on the ground attracted one’s eye with their vibrant colours. Even the two odd tapestries covering the nakedness of it all were eminently appropriate.

The one thing she had not done was to touch the walls. Used as she’d been to the warm comforts of her girlhood home, Lyanna had on more than one occasion decried the state of Storm’s End. She had learned since that such a keep could hardly need the heat, by the sea as it stood. The Rosby lands were differently positioned, it was true, but she doubted they’d seen the need for such implements either. As it were, she was more than glad for the comfort of her bedchamber and the reverence of the few servants she had seen so far. She suspected it had very much to do with curiosity on their part. But she’d had been through such an accommodation stage before. She knew the tricks of servants well enough.

“That I am glad to hear. I would be gladder still if you permitted our maester to have a look at you. After so tiring a journey,” he trailed off, gaze questioning.

A child which lived was the goal she strove to reach. As such Lyanna expected that she would have to see the maester sooner or later in the privacy of the man’s working chamber. Might as well familiarise herself with the sort of man he was. In truth, Lyanna had hardly exchanged more than a greeting with the man. She called to mind his face, picking it out from the sea swarming before her eyes; the middle-aged man with a slight stoop and bushy eyebrows. He’d not been particularly attention-grabbing, but for the stoop and the fact he favoured his left leg. She might have asked as to the necessity of it, but she did not truly care and had every hope the story would be passed to her some day or another in the form of gossip.

Such as their agreement had been, Lyanna followed her new husband out into the narrow hallway, stepping close enough until they stood shoulder to shoulder. They did not hold hands, nor even touched slightly as they walked together. It felt rather like the presence of a wall between them, thin, but there still with its message ringing across crustal clear. Her heart swelled with pleasure.

Maester Osric had left the door of his chamber wide open and from her vantage point without she could make out his form moving about behind a shelf. A smart man always had a plan ready. Gylem stepped within and cleared his throat. It took the maester more than a few moments to respond to the summon. But soon enough his head poked out from behind the shelf and he blinked, sunken eyes on full display.

“Maester,” she greeted with a smile, the same smile she had learn to use when first stepping into Robert’s home. What a day that had been. But this was not the time to dwell; with decided force she pushed from her the thoughts and sat down in a chair. “I hope we are not disturbing.”

“My lady, ser.” He came fully without, his stooped back returned into her line of sight. “I thought you would be resting after so tiring a journey. The lord–” There he stopped and seemed to think better of revealing aught. The lord Lyanna did not much care about. She waited for him to continue nonetheless. “How may I serve?”

“A small thing is all,” she answered before Gylem could. “You see, Gylem and I,” she cleared her throat delicately, feigning being overwhelmed by emotion, or prudery, “let us say, my good man, that we have anticipated,” she trailed off, eyes going to her man.

“That we have. Thus if you would be so kind.” The look of pure shock on the man’s face spoke volumes. It was pure mummery and too good to be ignored.

Maester Osric struggled for words, innocent bewilderment slowing him down. “But of course,” he managed at long last. “Give me but a moment to acquire what is needful.”

So simple. No questions. No demands. Lyanna was beginning to truly enjoy her new environment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) AAABAABBBAABBABAAABAAABAABAAABABBABABAAAABBABAABBA ABAAAAAABAAABAA AAABBBAAABAAAAAAABBAABBBAABBABBAABA BAABBAABBBAABAABBAAA AAABAABBBAABBAAAABAA BAABBABBBA AAAABAABAA ABAAAABBAB AAAAA BAABAABABBABAAAAABBAAABBBBAABBABABBBBAAA AAABBABAAAAABABAABABAABAABAAABAABAAABBABBAABB ABBAAAAAAAABBABABBABAABAABAAAB AABABBAAABABBBAABBAA BAABBAABBBAABAAABAAABAAAB ABBAAABBBABAAABAABAA AAABAABBBAABBAAABBAAABBBAABBABABBBBABABBAAAAAAAABAAABAA AAABAABBBABABAAABBABBAABBAABAABAAABABBBBAAAAABAAABBAABBBAABA BAABBAABBBAAAAABAABB ABAAABAABA BAABBABBBA BAABAAAAAABBAAA BAABBAABBBAABAABBAAA BAAABAABAABAAAABABAAABAAABAAABAABAA AABABABBBABAAAB BAABBAABBBAABAA AAABAABBBAABBABAAABAAABAAABBBBBAABBABAAAABBBAABBAB ABAAABAABBBAABAAABAAABABBAABAB AAAAA AAABAAABAABAAABBAABBAAAAAABAAAABBAB BAABAABBBBAABAAAAABAABAAAAAAAAABABB BAABAABBBAABBAAAABAABAABBAABBBABAAAABBABAABBA ABAAA ABABBAABAAAAAAABABABAABAA ABAAABAABB BAABBABBBA BBAAAABBBABABAABAAAB AABBABABAAAABAABAABABAABA BABBAAABBBAAAAABAABB BAABBAABBBAAAAABAABB BAABAABBBAABBAAAABAABAABBAABBBABAAAABBABAABBA ABAAABAABA 
> 
> 2) BAABBAABBBAABAA AAAABAABAABAABABAABB AAABABABAABAAABAABAA BAABBABBBA AAAAAABBABBBAAABAABBAABBBABAAAABBABAABBA ABAAABAABA AAAAAABBBBAAAAABAABBAABBBBBAAA BAABBAABBBAABAA BABBAABBBABAAABBAABABAABB BAABAABBBAABABBBABAABAABBABAAAABBBAABBAB BAABBABBBA AAAAAABBABBBAAABAABBAABBBABAAAABBABAABBA ABAAABAABA AAAAAABABBBAABAABBBA AAAAAABBBBAAAAABAABBAABBBBBAAA BABBAAABBBABBBA BABBAABBBABABAAABABBAAABB AABBBAAAAABABABAABAA BAABBAABBBABBBABABAAAABBAAABBB 
> 
> 3) AAAABABABBAAAAAAAABAABABA
> 
> And that would be all. Hope this was at l;east mildly entertaining. Really out of practice by now. :))


	6. Two Rusty Nails

 

 

 

 

 

 

“And yet there is no information forthcoming.” Rhaegar was growing tired of the inability of these men to follow through with their promises. “Might be you are doing something wrong,” he suggested, throwing the man before him a dark look. His own father had put quite a bit of faith by the skill of torturers. Rhaegar had assumed that the men were at the very least competent.

“Not wrong,” the man replied, still holding his hands behind his back. “Your Majesty ordered that we keep them alive. More extreme methods would have worked to steal away their life had we applied them. But now they are rested and fed, growing very near content. If Your Majesty would allow us to make use of more persuasive devices.”

”By all means.” He had tried to be patient and even humane to a certain degree, but it seemed to him that ultimately his father had had the right of it. People listened for fear, not out of the goodness of their character. “Let us see the breadth of your skill, good man, and then I shall decide what the end of this will be.” With horses that would not plough, one could but find a whip.

If a man and woman could oppose in such a manner the best efforts of the court’s most notorious experts in the arts of dismemberment, one had to wonder how other lords and ladies made do. Rhaegar stood from his seat at the long table, eyes turning to Lord Stark. “You had best come along as well, Lord Hand.”

Lyanna’s father had been much of a fixture of late and Rhaegar was starting to understand the man might not be as amenable as he’d first let on. The matter with the Northerner was that until he saw upon himself the seal of office, he would only be half as inclined to aid. Even in the matter of his daughter. Rhaegar was well aware that Lord Stark still conducted his private investigation into the matters, being that Lyanna’s youngest brother was in constant communication with Ser Stannis, he had yet to push for absolute loyalty. But in this matter upon which he wished to find consensus on this day, he could not delay.

Lonmouth appeared from behind one of the pillar and handed him a neatly rolled piece of parchment. “This came from Maidenpool, Your Majesty.” Rhaegar took it in his ands an unfolded it, allowing Richard to see as well. The squire nodded and retreated, taking the paper with him.

At long last they all stood. Rhaegar motioned for one of the servants standing near the westward wall. “Find Connington and bring him to the dungeons.” With that last order, he motioned that they should be on their way.

Qyburn, as he had promised, gave orders to one of his helpers to bring out a fair contraption which might help them out. Rhaegar and Rickard were, in the meantime, invited to seat themselves upon two available chair in a cell pristine and aired.

A wooden structure was brought in. The long platform could easily accommodate a grown man of some proportion. The surface, while smooth-looking, was not particularly appealing, long lines running down the lacquered wood, as if someone had tried their blade upon it. Rhaegar simply took in the sight, eyes moving to the sturdy thick straps at one end of the platform. The other end had a pair of manacles readied for use, the shining metal speaking of the great care which was taken with the device. He leaned back against his seat and asked of the man beside him. “Do the dungeons of Winterfell possess such machines, my lord?”

The Northerner kept silent for a few moments, eyeing the device with distrust. “I fear the rack has proven useless to us in the past. One might make more use of the chair.” A chair was good as well, Rhaegar considered. He did recall his father having had one upon which he enjoyed seating his victims. A hideous thing made of coal-black wood, fitting with sharp spikes. He also recalled that one time one of the many spikes broke into a man’s side and his flesh was rotting faster than they could get out the damned thing.

“Too quick, my lord. These two deserve our attention.” At his words the other shook his head, then nodded resolutely. Rhaegar wondered if he ought to send for those Bolton of the North. They might find the whole matter easier to stomach. As for himself, he simply looked at the door creaking open.

Jon Connington gave a bow once he was in sight. “Your Majesty, you have called for me.” Loyal to a fault. Rhaegar could safely say he did not understand the blind devotion this man had for him. Certainly, he understood attraction and a great deal about why Jon served him as he did. Beyond that, however, he could not fathom a reason for which the man might cling so tightly to aught which would never be given to him.

“So I have.” He stood up and walked towards the Stormlander. With a slow movement, he put his fingers upon the brooch Connington wore. “I believe it has come the time to return to your other duties,” he said, unpinning the ornament. “I expect you know where to find Mooton.”

There was nary a protest from Jon, although Rhaegar could well see the decision did not sit well with him. It made no matter. Soon enough Connington would have all the responsibility he could ever wish for. He waved the man away and returned to his seat. “There is usually a ceremony reserved for such namings, but I have made this promise so it comes as little wonder, I assume,” he said, placing the brooch in Lord Stark’s hand.

“No more a wonder than the sun coming to shine upon us every morning,” Rickard assured him, taking his prize.

The door opened a second time. This time it was the gaoler dragging after him a man. Rhaegar allowed himself to inspect the late Robert Baratheon’s squire. He was barely old enough to call himself a man. There was some fright in his eyes, enough of it to let them all know he was not entirely unaware of his situation. Of course, it could not help him any that garbles he was entirely without defence. “Is there nothing you want to tell us?” Rhaegar asked after a moment of holding the boy’s gaze.

A shake of the head was answer enough for him to nod at the gaoler. Without a second thought, the burly man pushed the former squire upon the platform and Qyburn entered. Together they fettered Ancel. “Last chance, boy,” Qyburn said in an oddly soft voice. “Tell us what we wish to know.” again, the boy shook his head.

Qyburn sighed and moved away from his feet to where a handle attached to a large gear awaited usage. He turned the lever trice until the chain grew taut. This would not produce the captive much pain, but rather a mild discomfort, enough to remind him he was alive. “On with it then,” Rhaegar ordered, Qyburn hurrying to turn the lever trice more. His movement were more sluggish the second time and the boy winced as his muscles pulled. Presumably the pain had to do with the abuse to his joints. Since the rack was more or less out of fashion, Rhaegar had only read about it. He wandered how long it would take for ligaments to snap and muscles to pull completely. There was only one way to find out. “Again.”

Doing his bidding, Qyburn took hold of the handle. The chains rattled as the captive pulled upon them, his scream of pain echoing through the chamber. “I do not know anything,” he cried out when Qyburn moved once more. Had Rhaegar been inclined to believe him, he supposed he might have assumed that enough torture had been heaped upon him. Instead, he relaxed in his seat.

Sign understood, the torturer simply went on, the bonds growing tauter and tauter still. The man cried out for the Mother’s mercy. A tad too late as far as Rhaegar was concerned. He closed his ears off to that and instead listened for the telltale popping noises.

He was not failed in his expectations. Amid grunts of pain and shrieks, a loud crack broke the tension. Qyburn paused, his helper bringing him a clean moist rag. He soothed the pain by this method, loosening the strained chains. “I don’t know a thing,” Ancel kept insisting. For a moment Rhaegar feared the boy might have lost his mind, but then, what matter did that make to him. After affording him a few moments of peace, Qyburn returned to his earlier actions. “Nay. Nay, I beg you, don’t–“ A terrifying scream rent the air. Rhaegar did not blink as the second round of popping noises came about. Ligaments, bones, everything was falling prey to the merciless pull of the rack until. “I don’t know.”

“Might be he truly does not know,” Qyburn offered, a sly look in his eyes. “Your Majesty, shall we attempt to aid him in recalling?”

“Anything you believe necessary.” He suspected the man had planned ahead and had quite a number of entertaining sights prepared.

True to nature, Qyburn helped his victim to a sitting position, leaving Ancel still chained. The door gave way to another figure. The female accomplice was brought in, equally as bereft of cloth as her trusted companion. Clean and brushed to perfection, she looked like a woman one might actually come to like. Rhaegar slid a gaze to Lord Stark. The frown he sported was rather unnerving. Still, he offered not a word of protest. Instead, he stood to his feet and moved along the wall to look without.

Two men entered bringing in a wooden horse. The thick vertical wooden board with its sharp edge boded ill for the golden haired creature. She was lifted onto the thing even as her accomplice moaned his protests. Strangely enough, Ymme had no words to offer. It was as if she had retreated into herself the moment they brought her in. Rhaegar had actually heard her fighting them without though.

Seated astride the contraption, the woman gulped softly, fidgeting. Qyburn nodded towards his helper and the man ran to her side, keeling. A large boulder was pushed into his hands, the chain and manacle attached to it awaiting use. Qyburn moved to her other side, taking hold on the first boulder’s twin. Once the weights had been attached to her person, she whimpered.

“Do not. I pray you, do not,” her companion continued to plead for her. “She did naught wrong.”

“Then who did?” Rickard spoke. Ancel did not answer. Instead he looked towards Ymme whose grimace deepened, twisting savagely upon her delicate features. The pressure of the wooden edge would have already started to dig into her flesh. The wooden horse could be difficult to endure. Ymme whimpered louder and Rhaegar raised one eyebrow at the red stains that had begun to appear.

“Step a moment without,” he ordered to the men around him. Once they had done that, he walked to Ancel’s side and forced his chin up, so he would have to look into his accomplice’s eyes. “You realise that as king I can do as I wish, do you not?” The woman interrupted him with her mewling, for which he threw her a dark look. “The wood will eventually cut a gash too deep into her flesh. It only takes a bit more weight.”

“Nay,” Ancel whispered.

“Nay?” Rhaegar chuckled. “Nay to adding more weight? I could spare her.”

“I did it on my own.” A praise-worthy attempt, but one which Rhaegar would not fall for. “I swear upon my soul. I did it all by myself.”

He hesitated for a moment. It was not his desire to proceed on so, but it seemed he had little enough choice. Rhaegar broke away from the young man and knelt in front of the wooden horse. He took hold of the woman’s ankles and tugged, hard. “Lies shan’t help you,” he thundered over her scream of pain.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Benjen coughed, trying to clear his throat of the annoying dust. “It sure took you long enough,” he managed despite that. “We’ve even caught the little scheming whore and her friend.” His good-brother merely frowned, dismounting.

“I fear that my findings shall only complicate matters then,” he said. The fact that he looked just about ready to kneel over did not give Benjen pause. He launched into a thorough interrogation, only stopped by Stannis holding up his hand. “You have no patience, do you?” Benjen shook his head.

A man stepped out from behind the line of men who had joined his good-brother. Tall and handsome, the fair haired stranger looked about with misted-over eyes, as if trying to piece something together. In fact, it struck Benjen that this man looked much too similar to one particular Kingsguard for him not to take good note. “And who exactly have you brought along with you?”

“I don’t rightly know his name.” Benjen looked away from the man at that. Had he simply picked a stray off if the road? “We found him near a body carrying this.” He threw a bundle at Benjen which had been handed to him by one of his men.

Opening it slowly, Benjen peered within. A shirt and a parchment was all he found. He took out the parchment and unrolled it. He did not recognise the writing, but the instructions were a clear enough indicator that someone at court had sent the dead man off. “So this is the presumed husband of Ymme Lannister?” The stranger snapped to attention at the mention of that name. He looked about, desperation creeping into his gaze.

“Ymme! “ man cried out. Stannis’ soldiers moved in to restrain him even as he fought their hold, screaming out for Ymme Lannister. “Where are you? Ymme!” Dead and buried if the letter Benjen held was to be believed. He looked at Stannis, expecting the man would have aught to say. But all his good-brother did was stare at him.

“Is there aught else?” The man gave a sharp nod. He did not at all like the look in his good-brother’s eyes. Benjen held the bundle out. It was taken from him by Stannis. “Might be it would be best if we were to find a more private space to hold this conversation.”

“I reckon you have the right of it.” He turned towards his men. “You two,” he picked out a couple of soldiers, ”take our Lannister guest to a chamber and lock him in. As soon as we have spoken of the matter, you shall have more instructions. In the meantime, do not injure him.” There was not much of him to injure anyway, Benjen thought to himself. It was improbable that the man even realised what was happening to him.

Stannis turned away from the sight completely and motioned for Benjen to follow him. “It is unlikely we shall have any bit of privacy as is, but I cannot risk saying the words I wish to say here.” Realising the importance of the matter by the tone Robert’s brother used, Benjen pushed away all previous thoughts of antagonisng the man for being ever so late. He followed Stannis into the small sept which the servants of the keep were at times allowed to use. In the middle of the day it stood deserted, so it was as good a choice as any.

They sat down upon a long stool. “Let us have it, what is this wondrous piece of information that you cannot share with me in the profane space of the courtyard.” He kept his eyes upon a rendering of the Father, mind already conjuring the justice so oft associated with the deity. He sighed softly and listened.

“Lady Lyanna’s maid is still with her, I trust.” That was an odd way of starting the conversation. Benjen nodded his head. Betha had hardly wished to leave her mistress alone after they’d found her in the kitchens. “And I understand that she too has some ties to this plot.”

As far as Lyanna had told him, nay. “What are you implying, good-brother? Betha is a good enough companion to my sister.” Was she loyal enough, though? That might have been the better question and if it necessitated asking, then one had to wonder as to the reason behind it.

“She was involved with one of my brother’s squires. His family was none too pleased about the matter,” Stannis pointed out. His voice, still somewhat loud in the small space, startled Benjen. “His family also says that she turned him against them.” Betha had hardly seemed the woman to accomplish such a beat. Benjen nodded nonetheless. “They found this upon him o during his last visit.”

Stannis handed him a slip of paper. Benjen took it from the man and opened it gingerly. He read a few lines from the top of the page. “He wrote this to her?” Whatever had been going on at Storm’s End, Benjen was beginning to fear it had more to do with the keep itself than any of its inhabitants. “Then Ancel is not to be blamed?” He paled. Had they accused the wrong man?

The stag snorted. “It is unlikely that he is innocent. But I believe this is rather a sign that more than one plot was being weaved.” Gods damn it, Betha and Lyanna were well away by now and nothing short of galloping to his sister’s aid would soothe the fears taking root in his breast at the moment. “What are the chances that Lady Lyanna might figure out on her own that she may be in danger from the servant?” Not too many as far as Benjen could tell. He shrugged. One of his legs was shaking so hard Stannis actually looked down. “Is there any way you can let her know of this without giving her maid any suspicions?”

“I might be able to think of something,” he said in the end, standing to his feet. But not before he spoke to father.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clue:
> 
> 2-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-2-1-1-2-1-1 1-1-2-2-1-2-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-2 1-1-1-2-2-1-2-1-1-1-2-1-2-1-2-1-2-1-1-1-1-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-1-1 1-2-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-2 2-2-1-1-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-2-2 2-1-1-2-2-1-2-2-2-1 1-1-1-2-1-1-2-2-2-1-1-2-2-1-1-1-1-2-1-1 2-1-2-2-1-1-1-2-2-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-2-2-1-2 1-1-1-1-1-1-2-1-2-2-1-2-1-2-2 2-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-2-1-2-2-2-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-2-1-1 1-1-1-1-1-2-1-1-1-2-1-2-2-2-1-2-1-2-1-1-1-2-2-1-2-1-1-1-2-2 2-2-1-1-1-1-2-2-2-1-2-1-2-1-1 1-2-2-2-2-2-1-1-1-2-1-2-2-2-1-2-1-2-1-2-1-1-2-1-1 2-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-2-1-1-1-2-1-2-2-2-1-2-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-2-1 2-1-2-1-1-1-2-2-1-2-2-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-2-1-2-1-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-2-2-2-1-1-1 1-2-2-2-1-1-1-2-1-2 2-1-1-2-2-2-1-1-1-2-2-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-2-1-1-2-2 2-1-2-2-1-1-1-2-2-2-1-1-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-2 1-1-1-2-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-2-2-1-2 2-2-1-1-1-1-2-2-2-1-2-1-2-1-1 1-1-1-2-2-1-2-2-2-1 1-1-1-1-2-2-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-2-2 1-2-1-2-2-1-2-2-2-1-1-2-2-2-1-1-2-1-2-1 2-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-2-1-1-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-2 1-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-2-1-1-2-2 1-2-1-1-1-1-2-2-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-1-2-2-2-1 2-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-2-1-1-2-1-1 1-1-2-1-1-2-2-1-1-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-2-1 1-1-1-1-1-1-2-2-1-2-1-1-1-2-2 1-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-2-2-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-2-2-1-2-1-1-1-2-2 1-2-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-2 1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-2-1 2-1-1-2-2-1-2-2-2-1 1-2-2-2-1-2-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-2-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-2 1-2-2-2-2-1-1-1-1-1-2-1-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-2-1-1-2-1 2-1-2-2-1-1-1-2-2-2-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-1 1-2-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-2 1-2-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-1 1-2-2-1-1-1-2-2-2-1-2-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-1 1-2-2-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-1-2-1-1-1-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-1-1-2-2 2-1-1-2-2-1-2-2-2-1 1-2-1-2-2-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-2-1 2-1-1-2-1-2-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-2-2-2-2-1-2-1-1-1-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-1-2-2-2-1-1-2-2-1-2 1-2-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-1 2-1-1-2-2-1-2-2-2-1 1-2-1-2-2-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-2-1 1-2-1-2-1-1-2-2-1-2-1-2-2-2-1-2-1-2-2-1-1-2-1-2-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-1-1-1-2-1-1 1-1-1-1-1-1-2-2-1-2-1-1-1-2-2 2-1-1-2-2-1-2-2-2-1 1-2-1-2-2-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-1-2-1 1-2-1-2-1-1-2-2-1-2-1-2-2-2-1-2-1-2-2-1-1-2-1-2-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-1-1-1-2-1-1 1-2-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-1 2-1-1-2-2-1-2-2-2-1 1-1-1-2-1-1-2-2-2-1-2-1-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2 1-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-1-1-1-1-1-1-1-2-1-1-2-2-1-1-2-2-2


	7. Without Black Wings

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lord Bracken and Lord Blackwood were once again bickering before him. Rhaegar had been certain that with a bright sunrise, a bright day was sure to follow. Not so much in his case, he found, sitting the throne. For pity’s sake, how many ages could two families nurture hatred between one another? “My lord,” he spoke over their racket, forcing the men to dwindle into silence, “I find this to be a difficult task, indeed, for I perceive each man has his measure of right in this. ‘Tis a delicate problem and I wish for time to consider it. I shall call for you. You may leave.”

Visibly dejected at the lack of a decisive victory, the two retreated. Rhaegar would not have fallen into such a trap anyway. If he should gratify Lord Bracken, he would lose Blackwood and their presence was useful to him. Should he allow Lord Blackwood to win, Bracken would react with violence. He would not be responsible for unrest.

Lord Lowther stepped forth and with him a woman Rhaegar had not seen for some time. Elayne Ashford, Lady Vyrwel, was leaning heavily on a slim cane. Even dressed in mourning grab, she brought to mind fond memories. The lord and lady bowed before him.

“What brings you to court?” he addressed them, knowing fully well what issue had pushed them into the whirlwind that was the royal court. When would his subjects learn that petty squabbling helped no one? Alas, he could not make such a claim. Instead he looked towards Rickard Stark who had quietly assumed Connington’s duties.

The man cleared his throat and opened a scroll. “Lady Vyrwel wishes it to be known that Lord Lowther has encroached upon her lands and caused her grave injury by planting traps for hunt there. Lord Lowther denies such charges, and claims the land rightfully belongs to him. Proceed, my lady and my lord. His Majesty is listening.”

“It is as I’ve said, Your Majesty, that land belonged to my husband, may the gods rest him, and it has been I the possession of House Vyrwel for longer than a century. As his sole survivor, the land is now mine. With what right comes Lord Lowther to hunt on my land?”

But before he could say aught, Lowther jumped in. “You lie. The land belongs to me. It was given great-great-great-great-grandfather in the keeping of a Lord Vyrwel when the man wedded his daughter, with the understanding that the land would be returned when his own son’s child would wed Lord Vyrwel’s offspring. But such never occurred.”

Elayne scoffed. “That was five generations past, fool. What matters that to me, if your kin were unable to negotiate better?”

Face growing red with fury, Lord Lowther turned towards her, “It matters as it was never rightfully your land, you grasping little whore.” Never let it be said that the Reach did not have its lot of unreasonable characters.

“Lord Lowther,” Rickard Stark cut in, “consider where it is you stand. How dare you bring such words before your King?” The King’s ears had heard much worse, but Rhaegar did not protest. Instead, he leaned back in his seat and regarded the man and woman before him with great interest. “Lady Vyrwen, is there aught more you wish to say?” Elayne shook her head, slanting Lothar Lowther a harsh look. The man did not seem affected. “Very well then, Lord Lowther, ‘tis your turn to speak.”

“When the Vyrwels broke their own word, any arrangement between our houses fell through,” he said in a decisive voice. “Lady Vyrwel would do well to remove herself from my lands and return what is rightfully mine. Surely Your Majesty understands.”

He nodded his head rather absently. “Is there any written document upon this contract, my lord?” Neither had provided such evidence, as far as he recalled.

Lady Vyrwel spoke then, “There was never aught written on it, Your Majesty, but a maester’s mention in the book of deeds.”

“Aye. There was never a written contract,” Lothar agreed after a short pause. He glanced at the woman standing by his side and scowled. “The note does not mention aught besides the deeding.” Therefore what the man said could only be proven by his word and naught else. No wonder Elayne had come to court with it. She’d never been one to allow opportunities to go past her.

“What happened to your leg, Lady Vyrwel?” She shifted uncomfortably at the question and he caught sight of his own wife’s disapproving moue. Rhaegar ignored it.

“My horse caught its leg into one of Lord Lowther’s traps and threw me off. I injured myself in the fall.” A twisted or even broken ankle, Rhaegar considered, by the way she had walked. “That is why I must insist the man remove his traps.”

“It is no fault of mine you are an abysmal rider and would lead your animal into a trap,” her opponent replied scathingly. “Might be next time you shall think better of riding on my lands.”

“I was not on your land, you oaf, but on mine,” she groused back. “He taunts me when it is due to his negligence that I have been mutilated.” Aught deeper then, a cut snaking its way up her leg, might be, split flesh and the like. “Am I to suffer such heinous behaviour in martyred silence?”

“If you cannot control yourself, Lord Lowther, you will be removed from the great hall.” His Lord Hand stood and stepped towards the two. “Now be silent, the both of you.”

“I find this very peculiar, Lord Lowther, that your kin should grant land but not make note of it. In such circumstances, I shall need a man of my own to look into the records. Only after can I settle the matter.” He stood to his feet and dismissed the line with a wave of the hand. “It is enough for the day, my Lord Hand shall to the rest.”

Elia stood as well and waited for him to reach her. She placed her arm upon his and followed with a swift step. “You know better than to ask so directly after another,” she chided gently, no bite behind her words. Fingers squeezed his hand. “Where are we headed to?”

“Your rooms,” he answered without hesitation, helping her down a flight of stairs leading into the inner gardens. They traversed together the narrow path to Maegor’s Holdfast. He wondered what they looked like to other eyes, if it seemed to them that the King and his Queen were better than those before in their seemingly united front. After so harsh a spat as the one they’d had, he could not help but wonder what the whispers about the keep were.

“You are very prompt, are you not?” she questioned, the mellowness letting him know she was anticipating his next move. “And dedicated. That was always admirable, husband. Your dedication. Whether it is to the playing of the harp or the wielding of a lance.”

“Occasionally it goes to other matters as well, this dedication,” he answered curtly, not particularly interested in praise. She was trying to bridge a gap, he could well understand, but Rhaegar was not yet ready to concede with grace.

His lady wife let it be and followed silently from that point on until they had reached the heavy door of her bedchamber. She was the one to open them, inviting him in with a languid gesture. He entered, pushing the doors closed behind, locking them in with a rise of the bar.

The streaming sunlight fell upon the wooden floors and soft carpets, but his eyes when he turned were upon Elia. She looked back at him, a content smile on her lips. “Come husband, I do not bite.” She toyed with the golden sash of her kirtle.

“I know.” He stepped closer towards her and gentle pushed her hands away, unknotting the girdle himself. Elia cupped his face between her palms and brought her lips close to his, her kiss soft and gentle. He kissed back equally subdued.

There was no spark to be found in such a dance as theirs, but there was a sort of comfortable routine one could not deny. He slipped the girdle from her waist and allowed it to drop, moving to the lacing at the side. She’d had them tied loosely. Her own hands moved away to his garments, dragging them from their secure places. He allowed her the benefit of it, not wishing to quarrel.

On they went until her kirtle dropped past her shoulders and down, bearing childbirth softened contours. With Rhaenys and Aegon, the moon turns after birth had been plagued with feverish nights and days of lying abed. That had left her a thin shadow. But the Elia before him was naught like that. She was in good health and she looked it.

She kissed him once more, this time her teeth dragging over his lower lip, drawing him forth as she walked backwards. He caught her by the hips, stilling her for a brief moment, just to make sure they were near enough to the bed. He gently lowered her down and moved to cover her. But as such matters went, there was more work to do still. To the last, his wife remained perfectly serene as he went about his business, hands moving up over her ribs, the paths his fingers trailed seeming to warm up.

Forcing his mind blank, Rhaegar relied on pure instinct to guide him through the rest, He nudged her legs apart with a slow move of the knee. He needn’t have done even that, for she simply moved to accommodate him as soon as he edged in position, her hand moved around his shoulders, arms curling into a light hold as he pushed in.

Rhaegar closed his eyes and waited a few moments until he was certain she had grown accustomed to his presence. Elia rocked her hips gently, the cradle drawing tight against him. “You can–“ she trailed off as he pulled back and swerved back in, settling into a soft rhythm.

He opened his eyes and looked up, gaze meeting the finely carved headboard of her bed. A niggling memory caused his teeth to clench together. He moved a hand lower down her hip and raised her slightly higher. His wife gave a soft grunt of displeasure, drawing back.

“I’m sorry. I did not mean to cause you discomfort,” he murmured, only too latte remembering her spine could not take the pressure.

Gracious, Elia raised her head to peck him on the lips. “’Tis naught.” She moved to his jaw, working her way to the side. Before long she was resting her head on the mattress once more, running her hand up and down his back. Her breathing was growing laboured. Rhaegar pushed a tad harder against her, the tempo increasing, but not beyond aught that would exert him. Still, she was close and he would follow just a step behind.

Elia convulsed around him, the clamp of her thighs working to hold him still as she cam apart under him. He did not fight, waiting out her climax, allowing his own thoughts to take over and urge him to the edge until both of them were breathing hard.

Beads of sweat dripped down his forehead, sliding against the skin of his temples.

Rhaegar pulled out of her with a loud exhaling sound and rolled on his back, bringing a hand to cover his eyes, shield himself from everything. In the following calm, drowsiness crept up upon him. He thought he would not be tired, but it seemed he’d been wrong.

A hand touched his chest, long warm fingers brushing against his skin. The weight of Elia’s head settled upon his shoulder. “Stay with me.”

He murmured his assent, too drained to move. How strange. He was not usually brought to such a state with ease.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Benjen looked at the woman with no small amount of suspicion. “And why should I wish to exchange words?” he asked of the light haired creature whose vermilion smile was equal parts pleasant and equal part worrisome.

“Because it is in your sister’s interest,” she commented, seating herself down without as much as a by your leave. “It is tremendously easier to be at ease when one has all the facts, do you not find?” She picked a lemon cake out of the pile and took it to her lips. “Besides, I like your sister. It is not ever woman who would so graciously take to her prize being eaten.”

“My good-sister’s delicate condition inspires only the utmost sympathy in my sister,” he allowed, sitting down as well. “But I fail to see how you can aid me or my sister. We already have what we came for.” Or at the very least a lot of it. The King had promised they would see Ymme, and even bring her to her presumed husband, yet the man had disappeared with his Queen and had yet to return. Still, a promise was a promise.

“There are things in this keep, young man, that are difficult to come by. Loyalty is one of them. I suggest not looking a gift horse in the mouth.” She bit into her treat and smiled as she chewed. This had to be the strangest woman he’d yet met and Benjen had met quite a few of them.

“And a handsome horse you’d make, I’m certain. But as far as I’ve heard your home is father east. Why would you be loyal to us?” She was sharing a bed with Arthur Dayne according to a slip of Ashara’s and the Kingsguard was loyal to Rhaegar as far as Benjen could make out. But this was one of Lys and would likely return there.

“I’ve an interest, of course,” she told him unrepentant at such openness. Darya took another lemon cake. “I’ve a daughter. Might be you have seen her around.” He nodded. He had seen the child, albeit at first he had been rather confused until his good-sister had sat him down and explained. Likely because he’d been ready to hie himself in search of a sword and have, harsh, words with his sister’s supposed lover. One had to praise Ashara’s diligence. Benjen shook his head, pushing the thought away.

“And what am I to do with this bit of information. Were I a woman, I might understand, but I confess I don’t the knack for it.” He leaned in slightly, positioning himself more comfortably. But could these people not be straightforward?

“For being a woman?” the courtesan jabbed lightly. “I forgive you, ser, as I do not think it was intended. To clarify, I am like any mother; I want a better life for my dearling. And it is not aught I may give her should she return with me.”

“How old is the girl? Not yet flowered, I reckon.” He was still unsure of what she was asking.

“Aye. But that surely would not stop her from being someone’s companion, a servant girl even to some kind lady.” She hesitated just for a moment. “A lady like your sister. A lady whom I have aided and will continue to do so should she show a little understanding.”

And a penchant for scandal. Benjen thought the proposition over for a moment. Lyanna would have likely accepted it on the spot. And one did have to consider they were speaking of a child who, after all, shared blood with his good-sister. “And what exactly would you be doing in exchange for such a commitment on my sister’s side.”

“Believe it or not, the court is a snake pit. I have a way with cold-blooded reptiles though. Information, aid, whatever your lady sister has need of.” She was being sincere, Benjen reckoned, by the way she spoke the words. “She has left at an extremely delicate time. There is so much that could go awry. She can do naught to stop it from her husband’s hall, but I am here, and I can.”

“So she has. I must say that you are making a lot of sense.” And he did not like it a bit. “But why not go to my brother with this?”

She chuckled. “I have seen your brother. Nice as that wife of his is, the man has principles and a will of iron. I know better than to test the sharp edge of a blade.”

Silence fell between them.

“Are you saying that I am unprincipled?” They both started laughing. There was something to be said about such individuals who managed to make themselves liked in much of any context. Admirable trait, Benjen considered as they slowly quietened.

“I am saying you are more lenient,” she replied at long last. “I take it we have reached an understanding?”

“I will write to my sister and inform her.” But should she refuse, he would simply have to bother his cousin with the task. A woman newly-wed was bound to need some aid. His mind made up, Benjen gave an assuring nod of the head of effect.

“In the meantime, I should tell you that I’ve heard a bit of a rumour concerning Lord Lannister.” Benjen motioned that she should go ahead. “He is not alone. Word is he’d bringing his son with him.”

“The dwarf?” There was no one in the realm who did not know about the misfortunes of Tywin Lannister. “He’s kept the child hidden for so long, why would he bring him along now?”

Darya shrugged and stood. “It is just words. We shall have to wait for them to be confirmed.” She curtsied, for a first exhibiting aught to be named ladylike behaviour. She turned towards the door, but gave one last look over her shoulder, “I am counting on Lady Lyanna.”

“As are we all.” For different reasons each, he would say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lyanna drew in a few gulps of air, pain lacerating her. It felt rather as if someone had thrust a knife between her ribs and was in the process of twisting it into the wound. For the life of her, she could not understand what had led to such a condition. For the past few days she’d experience naught at all which would indicate illness, not even the nausea so common to pregnant women. And yet sitting down in her chair, she could do little but lift her head in slight confusion and squint her eyes to better see who was approaching.

“Are you feeling any better, m’lady?” Betha questioned, applying a water-cooled cloth to her forehead. “The maester says that your husband should be returning very soon. If you are still ill by then, he advises a pinch of milk of the poppy.”

Shaking her head at the very notion, Lyanna drew back slightly. “Nay, no milk of the poppy.” She’d been told that the strength of it might bring harm to the babe. She was more than willing to carry herself through the pain. She needed the child. “Come to me as soon as my husband has returned.”

She’d not been able to speak to him of her plans to visit her good-sister in Winterfell. Having never been truly close to Catelyn Tully, Lyanna had been slightly reluctant to make such an excuse. But in the end needs must and she had a son to protect and gods to implore. It was best she fearlessly make her demand. That would mean writing to Catelyn and telling her she intended to come to her. And should her good-sister choose to write to her own father the arrival of a raven interdicting such a strenuous endeavour would likely be arriving. What she needed to do was time the thing. If the letter arrived too late and she was already on the road no one could stop her.

With that in mind, Lyanna had intended to suggest they test the waters beforehand. But she never managed to as her husband hied himself off with a promise to return soon. Considering he had his own amorous liaisons to consider, Lyanna had allowed that he needed some privacy. Still for him to not have returned yet and for her own traitorous body to cause her trouble was a meeting of circumstances which produced some anxiety within her breast, adding to the general pain she was experiencing.

“My gods, this is monstrous,” she whispered to herself, sighing deeply. She’d not been made for such pain. Might be if she slept a while. But who could sleep. Her thoughts would only keep her awake. Why the gods sought to make the matter so difficult, she could not tell, what was clear though was that she was condemned for the time being to muddle through the ache. Thus she sat in her chair, stubborn refusal to move to the bed the only thing keeping her upright.

Frozen, more out of necessity than true willingness, in her spot, Lyanna attempted to stop herself from counting the seconds until she’d hear another human being shuffling through the corridors. Her husband, most likely, searching her out. Then she’d ring a peal over his head for being gone for an unconscionable amount of time, after which she would, well suffice to say that she would do something. A strong pulsation cut off her train of thought, bringing her mind to a standstill. She struggled against the desire to cry out, biting down hard. For a brief moment the ache of a split lip gained over whatever else she was feeling.

And then the door swung open, drawing a semicircle on its hinges. “Ser, you cannot go in there. M’lady is not well,” she heard Betha demand shrilly of the man. But Elbert Arryn as not the sort of man put in his place by a servant. She suspected it was why he and Brandon used to get on like a house on fire.

Surprise pushed her into a standing position. “Ser, what brings you to my door?” she questioned, noting the taut lines of his face. “And in such a state.”

“My lady,” he moved towards her, gripping her by the shoulders as if to steady her. “I bring ill news, I fear. Might be you should sit.” Ill news, her father had told her, was to be taken standing if at all possible. Her knee buckled and she fell back into her seat, a sense of foreboding stealing over her.

Burying her face in her palm she pushed away the fog surrounding her mind. “There was no better time for ill news,” she muttered to herself, then turned her gaze upon Elbert Arryn who was standing awkwardly before her. “Tell me. Tell me quickly for I fear I shall expire on the spot.”

All colour was leeched away from his face at her words. “A matter of death, aye. It is your husband, my lady. Your own Gylem of whose death I speak.”

Frayed nerves hauled together the last of her patience. “Ser Elbert, your jest is in very poor taste. Can you not see I am not well?”

“I wish it were a jest,” he whispered after one horrifyingly silent moment of absolute stillness. “I am so sorry. I cannot even tell you.”

Nay; Lyanna shook her head in mute disbelief. Her husband had gone out to carouse and do what men in his situation did. He could not be dead. She needed him alive. A strange sound penetrated the gloom of her thoughts. A hiccough. It took her a moment to realise it had come from her.

“Where is my husband?” Not even her voice was her own. Lyanna cursed silently, trying to force her body into action but her useless flesh resisted each and every one of her attempts.

“In the yard. We had to cart his body back.” Elbert’s arm was already moving behind her back, drawing her to her feet, holding her against his side.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) 6-2-26-18-10-21-18-5-18 22-1 7-21-18 17-22-6-7-14-1-16-18 14-11-18-6 14-5-18 15-18-22-1-20 6-21-14-5-3-18-1-18-17 
> 
> Time to get a move-on up in this piece.
> 
> By the by, chapter is dedicated to the two of you who asked consecutively for an update. Thanks for providing me with a reason to tap the keyboard. :3 Enjoy the result.


	8. Master Of Shadows

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Robbery,” she murmured, hand still resting on her slightly rounded middle. “But I do not understand. He was not alone, surely.” Lyanna held Elbert’s gaze, trying to piece together the whole story through the muddled lens of her still grief-afflicted mind. “Why would anyone bother?” He’d not taken much coin when he left.

Elbert maintained the contact, despite his throat working at an even faster pace. Was he worried she would ask after another, more delicate, subject? “A tavern brawl. They usually end in such gestures.” The man cleared his throat. “He wanted me to make certain you would be well looked after, my lady.”

Horrid man, she decided a moment later, anger flaring to life within her. Did he truly think she would point her finger and make accusations? “Ser Elbert, do you still count my brother among your close companions?” He gave an uncertain nod at that. “Then what has changed in the short span of my marriage that you would be so cold to me now?”

He froze, regarded her with a wide, dumb gaze and moved his lips in muted speech. With all the difficulty rising to her feet posed, Lyanna forced her body into cooperation. “I understood perfectly well the manner of my marriage.” The clarification was met with a low release of breath. She walked to the lower lancet and looked without.

“I thought his death might complicate matters,” Elbert admitted after a moment of silence. “Shall I leave you?”

The door groaned softly, turning her attention away from Elbert’s words. Her good-brother entered. “Leave her presence, indeed,” the man said in a frail voice. “Lady Lyanna and I have some matters to discuss. If you would be so kind, ser, as to give us a few moments.”

Elbert took himself off with a nod and a bow, leaving her with Gyles. He coughed, half-covering his mouth with his hand. “I have spoken to the maester,” he began, sitting in the chair recently vacated. “It was very likely the shock and strain which caused you pain, good-sister, but the child is in good health and barring any other like happenings, there should be no trouble.”

That did not explain her recent bout of sickness. Lyanna nodded along still and breathed deeply. “I cannot yet believe he is gone,” she murmured, thoughts drifting to her second husband. “I should have insisted that he take a few men with him.”

Gyles coughed and shook his head. “No one could have anticipated such an outcome,” he murmured. “I have thought about your request.” She straightened at that. “I do not wish you to leave. The roads do not make for a pleasant travel and with child, you could feel the effects even more. But if I were to try forbidding it you would still take off.”

Being that she was still the daughter of a great house and now for the second time a widow, Gyles had the right of it. “I do not mean to sound ungrateful, for Rosby Hall has taken good care of me, but in my condition, and with such events as the ones that have passed, I find myself wanting more than ever the close embrace of my kin. My good-sister still nurses her daughter and her home may meet the challenge of the birthing chamber with less fuss.”

She felt distinctly uncomfortable, lying to an ill man to his face. But Gyles Rosby was nodding his head with ease, peppering his movements with lights coughs. “I only fear it would look ill to have you leaving so soon. “ He was thinking of the Crown. Lyanna offered an encouraging smile, so the man continued. “It would reflect poorly on us. It would be said that Rosby Hall is inhospitable.”

“Naught of the sort would carry. I shall write myself to my lord father and let him know I was simply seeking comfort. You needn’t fear. Rosby Hall is my home now and I shall return within a year’s time. But I find myself unable to see to the rigours of running a keep at the moment.”

Her good-brother made a thoughtful sound. “At the very least allow me to send more men with you. Half a dozen is too small a party to guarantee any manner of security.” Rosby Hall was not a grand keep. It hadn’t the sheer number of guards grander keeps could offer. If she took more men, she would leave them without proper protection.

“I could never accept that. Half a dozen is more than enough men, I assure you. I have travelled before the road and know it well enough. There has not been news of trouble since those brigands during King Aerys’ reign. I say you mustn’t worry over such matters.” He accepted her words with an undecided nod and pressed no further. Lyanna moved slowly towards her seat. “And I feel I must thank you yet again for allowing Betha to remain here in my absence.” The woman would be birthing any day. In fact, her pregnancy was proving to drag on unusually long. It was of course not why Lyanna had decided to leave her at Rosby Hall. But Gyles needed some sort of guarantee.      

 “If that is your will, good-sister, than I shan’t insist any longer. You must rest now though, if you would make such a long journey.” He stood and gave her one last long look. She half expected he would make a comment, but he merely covered a cough and turned his back on her to reach the door. Gyles Rosby left her to her won thoughts, cradling the entire weight of her sins within the tight span of her chest.

Lyanna reached for her tea and took a sip of the warm mixture. It slid down her throat, warming her insides. She tried her best not to consider her husband, a short distance away, entombed, in endless sleep. She thought of writing a missive to her father then and there, but after considering the matter longer she decided against it. The last thing she desired was for her father to understand she planned aught more than she let on.

Instead, Lyanna would write to her son. She had received no raven from the boy since her arrival, more she suspected, because of the excitement of his new life than any other reason. Ashara would write her if she set to it. But even for that Lyanna could find little strength. Her head was still woozy despite length hours of sleep and her body suffered under the influence. Naught of any intelligence would be composed if she as much as attempted to string the words together.    

She saw little cause to remain awake, even seated in a comfortable wicker chair. She would wake early on the morrow and see to the necessary preparations. With a clearer head, she could write all the messages she wished. Lyanna made in to the bed and climbed in with some difficulty, dragging the coverings over herself, kicking her slippers off beneath the blankets. Before long she was floating between the realm of waking and dreaming, comfortable warmth wrapping around her tightly. A muffled sound reached her ears, but she ignored it, pushing it away, sinking deeper into slumber.

And sleep she did until well into the morning hours when she came to with a little start. Lyanna blinked the heaviness away from her lids and rose on her elbows as scratching noises came from the door. It opened gently and the keep’s maester stepped within. “I regret that I must disturb your sleep, my lady, but my lord requests your presence at the table. Ser Arryn would have words.”

She nodded her head. “Maester, if Tilly is hovering somewhere around here, send her to me.” The man nodded and saw himself out.

Within minutes, the servant girl poked her head in, “M’lady, you called for me?”

“Aye,” Lyanna answered softly back. “I need a hand or two with my garments.” Her sleep befuddled mind worked slowly through the routine as Tilly scurried about the room, pulling out a clean chemise and smooth dress. Lyanna washed her face and hands in the small bassinette near her bed.

Donning her clothed, she gave Tilly a warm smile. “Have you ever been far from Rosby Hall?” she asked, tying a sash around her wait as the girl went on with her work of unbraiding Lyanna’s hair and combing it vigorously.

“Only to the village, m’lady,” Tilly replied conversationally. “My father would never allow aught else. He said a woman should only travel on her own when in dire need.” Dire need, indeed. “I bet m’lady has seen most of the realm.”

“A bit of it,” she offered gamely. “My brothers have travelled more. Would you like to see a bit more as well? Since my Betha is in an interesting condition, I find I have need of a good pair of hands.”

For a heartbeat absolute silence stretched between them. The grip on her hair tightened slightly. “You mean it, m’lady? I can come with you?”

“Of course.” She stood to her full height, pulling the last strand of her hair away from Tilly’s grip. “I shall speak to my good-brother, but I am certain he shan’t oppose.” With one last smile to the girl, Lyanna urged her back to her duties.

She took a few moments to compose herself and ensure she looked fit to join the company. It was still rather strange, she thought to herself, to be moving about with such expediency. But there it was.

Within the main hall she found the two men, conversing quietly. They looked up as she entered and stood. The maester moved to help her to her seat. Lyanna smiled softly at them all and reached out to fill her plate. She’d worked up quite an appetite.

“My lady, I have a proposition,” Ser Elbert began. He waited for an encouraging nod before continuing. “My lord was just telling me that you wish to make for Winterfell and that you will not accept an increase in your guard. I might be able to give a solution pleasing to the both of you.”  

“Then let us hear it,” she said, after swallowing a mouthful of venison.

“Since I am making for my kin’s hall, allow me to join my men to yours. If we journey is such a manner, the risk of an attack will be lesser.” He stared at her expectantly.

Lyanna hummed softly under her breath, struggling with a particularly tough piece off meat. “I see no reason to protest. But I was planning to travel by wheelhouse. I fear that would make the journey longer for you, good ser.”

Elbert Arryn waved his hand dismissively. “Not by long, my lady. There are paths to shorten it even.”

Since he insisted and she was not against the principle of it, Lyanna nodded her head in understanding. “I am grateful for your concern.” She climbed to her feet, pushing away her plate. “Your men are more than prepared for it, so I had best have my own preparations finished.” Turning towards her good-brother, she leaned in slightly. “Might I take Tilly with me, my lord. She has been of such help these past few days.”

“If it is Tilly you’re wanting, good-sister, than she is yours.” She had known the man would not refuse. “Now be off with you to those preparations.”

She was in the hallway when Elbert caught up with her again, taking her by the arm. “My lady,” he drew closer to her, “would that you gave me a moment of your time.” She slowed her pace and listened. “About Gylem, I must insist–“

“If you fear I would speak, I shan’t. Gylem was my husband, and I have told you before, I knew very well the sort of man he was. Be at ease, my friend.” He sighed but released her. “Would it make a difference were I to vow it to you?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jon faced the child with equal parts fascination and weariness. “You must stay away from me,” he warned, steeling himself against the cold he felt emanating from the creature. It hissed and crackled, the strange language flittering about his ears. Jon sat down in the tall snow, his form causing deep indentations to come into being. He thought for a moment of his lady mother and her warm embrace to ward off the chill. “Do you have a mother?”

The creature approached languidly. It continued to stare at Jon through luminous eyes, the slightly bloated face half-shadowed in the pale light of the moon. “Of course he does. They all do. They are all my children.” Those words were a whisper coming from all about. Jon tried to rein in his terror, keeping in place. “You could be my child too.” The suggestion was an almost tangible thing. Jon felt it brush against his cheeks, as if fingers were stroking patters upon his skin. Obstinately, he feigned ignorance and keep his gaze upon the still approaching child.

Another hiss left its cracked lips and it tumbled in the snow, crawling the rest of the way until it had reached one of Jon’s outstretched legs. He pulled the limb away. “I miss my mother. She went to live with my new father.” Despite the lack of an understandable response, Jon found it felt good to speak of these matters to someone. Even if that someone was a figment of his imagination. “Aunt Shara says she will write soon. I only want her to come back.”

“I could bring her for you,” the same voice whispered, tempting. In the distance a vaguely familiar shape shone in the darkness. A beacon, Jon considered. “I could make it so she never left your side again.”

It was his lady mother, Jon realised after a few moments of gazing at it, dragging himself away from the child reaching out. But there was aught different. Instead of the warmth she usually cast, the woman approaching seemed more a creature of cold. She bore a striking resemblance to his mother, but for one shall detail. The steel of her eyes has turned into the same luminous blue of the child.

Before long she stood before them and the creature on the ground rightened itself, turned around and flew into her open arms. He watched the two, vaguely aware that the cold had gripped him. The ghostly woman glanced at him, smiled thinly and held out her arms once more. “Come, my son.”

It was a rasp more than aught else. He grinned back and shook his head definitely. “I am not your son.” The woman frowned. Her arms remained outstretched.

“That you are not,” a new voice chimed in. Jon turned around in time to see a familiar three-eyes crow land upon a branch. From within the shadows, Brynden Rivers stepped out. “Still up to your old tricks, witch?” he called to the creatures. “Away with you.”

There was no struggle, naught to suggest it even, but Jon felt a cold whip-like crack against his cheek. He stumbled backwards into the man’s hold. “You mustn’t allow her to upset you,” the seer said, “she would use it against you.”

Jon nodded. “I tried seeing like you told me. But there is naught other than darkness.” He brushed the snow away from his breeches. “Is there?”

“The witch was keeping it at bay,” Brynden answered.

As if to confirm it, the tress around them fell into rapid decay, the earth cracked and rumbled until the very fabric of existence seemed to strain. Jon closed his eyes. He drew in a deep breath. And then he opened them.

The scenery was completely different. No longer was he standing in an ancient forest surrounded by whispering trees. Instead, all around him, sharp high rocks interspersed with patches of dried grass and at times melting snow made up a novel backdrop.

“Pay mind to what your eyes see,” the seer instructed. But when Jon turned to ask further questions, he realised he was alone but for the crow that had remained perched on a tall branch. It croaked down at him, its stare haughty.

Jon snorted and turned his head away. The light fog around them was cause for a moment of uncertainty. But then he squared his shoulders and with determined steps began to amble among the stones. He bit his lower lip. Somewhere ahead darkness loomed. It seemed more the darkness of undefined shapes than any one finger of the night. He walked towards it.

Ever so slowly, trees came into view before him. One or two had been cut, but a pair of them stood straight and wide, as if marking an entrance. Jon glanced over his shoulder. The crow was balancing itself on a sharp rock. “I am going within,” he said. “Follow if you must.”

As good as his word, he made his way beneath the green arch of the trees. The faint flapping of wings sounded out behind him. Jon winced and stepped deeper into what looked to be another forest. He cleared through long rows of trees, eyeing his surroundings with curiosity. There was not much to see other than scarred bark and green leaves.

Ahead the path gave way into a small clearing with a wide, thick three in the middle of it.

There was aught else waiting too. Jon inched closer, remaining on the path as he stretched himself as far as he could. He gasped then and hid behind a tree, just as the occupant of the clearing shifted.

Beneath the tree, lying on its side, fur covered in blood, a lithe she-wolf raised her head to look about. Golden, her eyes burned with blatant distrust. She made a soft sound, a whimper, tail swiping at some invisible foe.

Her cry was answered by a roar from above.

Jon’s eyes widened as his own senses expanded, his mind touching the she-wolf’s briefly. Wonder and horror mingled as he stepped out of the shadows.

A small head poked out from the cradle of the she-wolf’s body, damp, glistening fur sticking up awkwardly. The mother growled and the pup whimpered. Jon held his hand up, as if to deflect her anger. “I am here to help.”

He understood what he was being shown.            

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) BAABBAABBBABAAABAABA ABAAABAABA AAAAA BAABBBAAABABBBAABABBABABB ABBAAAABAABAABABAABAAAAAAAABBAAABAA ABAAA ABBAA BAABBABBBAABBBA ABABBAAAAABBAABBBAAA BAABBABBBA BAABBAABBBABAAAABBABABABA ABBBAAABAB AAAAAABBAB AAAAAABBBBABBBBBAAABABBBAABBBBBAAABABAAAAAAAABAABBAABAA AAABAABABBBABAAAABAA ABBAAAAAAAABABAAABAA BBAAAABBBABABAABAAAB ABBBABABBAABBAB AAAAAABBABAAABB ABBBBBABAABAABB BAABBAABBBAABAAABBAA ABAAAABBAB BAABBAABBBAABAA AAABAABBBAABBAAABBAAAABAAABBABBAABBBAABA ABAAAAABAB BBAAAABBBABABAA BAABAABBBAABBAAAABAAAABBBABBBABABBA AABBBAAAAABABABAABAA ABBABABBBABAABBAABBBABAAAABBABAABBA AAAABAABAABAABBBAABBAABAABAAAB BAABBABBBA AAABBABBBA 
> 
> Right. I'm so tired for some reason, I could sleep an entire week and still not wnat to get up. 
> 
> I'm off to find something to do.


	9. Before The Last Piece Falls In Place

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rhaegar contemplated his findings with a slow sigh, fingers moving against the ridge of the cup. The Spider had not yet answered, worrying a piece of embroidered cloth between his fingers with alarming ease. His corpulent frame was slightly bent, allowing for an even greater contrast between himself and Arthur.

“The matter is of very delicate nature,” the eunuch offered, the sweetly gliding voice grating on his nerves by the end of his speech. “Your Majesty would not be amiss to seek privacy for the delivery of such answers.”

“Master of Whisperers, regardless of how you perceive the answer, I choose with whom I share the knowledge. Pray answer my question.” He tapped his fingers against the rim in a slower rhythm, the movements deliberate in their execution.

Varys brushed his kerchief against the sudden dampness of his forehead and glanced towards Arthur who was watching him back without an ounce of subtlety. Rhaegar shot his friend a warning glance which the Kingsguard brushed off. In spite of it, Varys remained silent for the span of a few heartbeats, seemingly debating whether he should speak or not. Annoyance crept up upon him. Rhaegar paused in his drumming, fingers poised to come down once more. Were he to drag a sword to the eunuch’s throat, the gods only knew what he should say.

The man sighed softly. “My little birds have seen much, I am sure, and more than any one man should, but ‘tis the truth of it, Your Majesty, is that the woman did not speak falsely.” It seemed that his father’s man was at long last willing to join him. Rhaegar nodded, fingers resuming their drumming in the silence which followed.

The three of them stood unmoving for what felt like the length of a year, during which time, Rhaegar gathered the wherewithal to pose the last important question he had. ‘Twas not that he feared such a betrayal, but rather that he dreaded it. And what man would not, in his circumstances? “Since the arrival, has this behaviour repeated itself within the wall of my keep?” He eyed Arthur, who had gone pale. For a split-second, he thought of letting the matter go. But then that thought was pushed away firmly.

“Several times,” the Master of Whisperers replied vaguely, voice softening . “If Your Majesty wills it, I could ask for further detail.”

But Rhaegar held one hand up. “No further details are needed here.” He looked Varys in the eyes and steeled his voice, “No one is to know of this. Our conversation upon the matter never happened.” Startled, the eunuch took a step back. “I’ve no further need of you for the moment. You may retreat.”

“Your Majesty,” the soft-handed Varys answered, stepping even further away before he turned to leave. One last glance was thrown their way, but Rhaegar chose to ignore it, imagining it was one of the man’s mummings. The door closed with a quiet squeak.

“Well, Arthur. What have you to say now?” He had to admit he himself had been sceptic when first he heard it. With his friend’s failure to deliver any manner of reply, Rhaegar found himself insisting. “I’ve never known you to be so quiet.”

The knight floundered. “I cannot credit such words. Even having heard them once more.” He blinked slowly, as if waking from a deep sleep. “But what I believe is on no importance here. If Your Majesty wishes to act, that is.”

“A decision you do not agree with. Would you have me turn a blind eye?” He smiled, lips curling in a cutting display. “There are only so many times an action is a mistake before it becomes a sin. And one can commit only so many sins before judgement comes knocking on the door.”

“It would be a grievous blow to the Lion,” Arthur allowed, his hard lines of his face not softening a smidgeon. “It would, however, be an even greater blow to the Crown. House Lannister is old and influential, famed, in part due to Tywin Lannister’s efforts. He is not an easy enemy to have.”

“Any upstart house should find maintaining the proper order a difficult task,” Rhaegar agreed. “I do not want to make an enemy of him. But in this matter, I fear I must antagonise the man. I suppose there is some hypocrisy to my stance.”

“If it had to do with the laws of man and gods, I should think so. But Your Majesty is thinking of another matter entirely, I trust. ’Tis not Tywin Lannister you wish to be rid of, although I suppose the opportunity is not to be neglected, but Cersei Lannister herself.” He stopped there, waiting for confirmation.

”If I confessed to you what my wishes in this moment are, I fear I should lose your friendship.” The tongue-in-cheek comment deflected some of the tension. “How can a person be so vile, I wonder, so ruthless, calculated and unfeeling?”

“The Seven only know.” Arthur shifted his weigh from one leg to the other. “Rhaegar, Jaime can’t have been part of it. I know him. You know him. He aided us even.” Rhaegar recalled. He allowed the possibility to enter his mind, entertaining it for a few moments. “I never told you this, but in the light of the dilemma, I feel I must; when your father yet lived, he heard something as he was standing without the royal bedchamber.” Rhaegar tensed, well imagining what Ser Jaime could have heard. “Do you know what he asked?”

“Tell me.” He breathed in shudderingly, his own mind touching upon unpleasant memories.

“He asked whether knights were not sworn to protect those who needed it.” Arthur’s gaze pressed for understanding. “A lover’s influence is great, Rhaegar; might be greater than we can imagine, but when has love changed a man’s nature?”

“I cannot keep this knowledge from him,” was the only answer he had to give in the end. “But I am willing to listen.”

Richard entered then through one of the side-doors. “Your majesty, Ser Dayne.” He looked from one to the other, then settled his gaze upon a point on the wall.

“Is there aught the matter?” Rhaegar questioned. He turned to face Arthur. “You should go rest. I am almost tempted to order you to bed, but I suppose you shan’t take that well.”  The man did look tired. How much of it was concern and how much genuine exhaustion, Rhaegar could not tell.

“I shan’t protest either, Your Majesty. I find I quite like my bed these days.” But even more, he suspected, the person in his bed. Rhaegar let him go with a knowing look and Arthur did not hesitate much.

That left him with only Richard. “Well? What news?” He took his cup to the lips and took some wine as his mind settled.

“I ask Your Majesty to forgive me for speaking out of turn.” The hesitation was unnerving. Rhaegar gave his squire full attention. “Does it not seem strange there has been no word of late. No even as much as a raven.” He was speaking of Lyanna.

Rhaegar truly did not wish to consider the matter. A wedded woman, he supposed, did not have the time to be writing letters every day, although at least one to assure them all of her continued good health would not have been amiss. A creeping sense of unease reader its head tentatively. “There is naught amiss.” Whether he was making the point to his friend or to himself, Rhaegar did not look into. “Better that such words don’t carry, Richard.” He stood. It was tiring. “Bring me Lady Vyrwel,” he instructed, already halfway to the door.

“Your Majesty,” his squire acquiesced. The confusion in his voice would have given Rhaegar pause on any other day. On this one, however, he found that he hadn’t the necessary fortitude to explain himself. All that he knew was that danger lurked in the shadows of his keep and he had to root it all out. Elayne had come to him with her gripe and he would aid her, if she did the same for him.

He opened the door and gazed without. Ser Selmy regarded him with some interest, while Oswel Whent kept his neutral expression firmly in place. “No disturbances.” That was the sole order he gave before retreating back within the chamber, shutting the door.

Elayne was brought along without much joy by his friend, and even though Rhaegar could guess his thoughts, he refrained from offering explanations. It would befit him to keep quiet until he was certain what exactly it was he wished to do. As for his guest, she gazed at him adoringly, albeit with some manner of suspicion.

Rhaegar merely gazed at her with focused attention. Elayne mellowed some under his gaze, only enough for him to catch a glimpse of a younger, more vulnerable creature. Then her face hardened and she seemed to push away all nostalgia. It was time to count his supporters.       

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Darya stretched, arching her back much like a cat. Assets brought to attention, she grinned up at him. “You should not leave me alone for too long,” she purred, “I might grow weary of the silence.” But Arthur could summon very little beside a frown. She frowned in turn. “Aught the matter?”

There had to be, Arthur thought to himself, as he observed the woman in his bed. “This is all a muddle, Darya. You wouldn’t believe,” he chuckled without a trace of humour, sitting on the edge of the bed, keeping his eyes upon the door. The woman was shifting behind him, soft form pressing against his back.

Her warm breath ghosted against the shell of his ear. Arthur waited for her to speak, but Darya seemed content to toy with a lock of hair, keeping close to him. Tentatively, he leaned into her touch. It seemed like only the other day she had arrived in King’s Landing with a patron on one arm and his daughter on the other. He’d been pleased to see her, dangerously pleased. Not for one moment, though, had he given much thought to aught which might sour their relationship, not his duty, not his vows, not even Mylessa and the reason behind Darya dragging her to Westeros.

But the recent revelations did not allow him to force all issues in some dark corner. “Lady Lyanna should be returning soon,” he said at long last, turning to gaze upon Darya’s face. She had moved back, resting against the wall with a curious expression on her face. “At the very least to hear the King’s verdict if for naught else.”

“He worked out the mystery, did he?” Unconcerned, she rolled her shoulders with a pleased sigh. “He’s always been smart. Too smart, I say.” Then, as if alerted to his dark thought, she stiffened. “You do not agree with her return.”

“He’s only just reached an understanding with the Queen.” Arthur could only imagine what a ruckus another conflict might bring. And this time, Oberyn’s foolishness would not be available to balance the terms. “If Dorne rescinds its support, Rhaegar will have a much harder time of carrying out his plans. If he does bring her back, it would be a strain on all of us.”

“I’ll admit ignorance in matters of politics, but were I so inclined to solve matters, I would simply find a reason for the lady to visit on her own. Lady Lyanna has a husband, your King has a council. And if I know the man well,” and by her smile, she thought she did at least, “then he had already considered the possibility. But I do not think ‘tis the King and his affairs that has brought you in such a state.” Darya placed a hand on his shoulder, “I might not have a competent answer, but I’ve very good ears.” As if to demonstrate her point, she dragged the curtain of her hair out of the way.

“Pretty too,” he added lightly, tracing the line of one ear gingerly. “It does not feel quite real, and I’ve no idea how much I should say.”

“Say no more than is needed,” she advised sagely, drawing away to lie on her back. She stretched a second time, then rolled on her side, cushioning her head against her palm, as she rested her elbow upon the mattress.

“Has there ever been a moment when you felt that those you thought you knew turned into a walled keep?” Darya was might be the worst person to speak of these matters to, alas, she was the only one Arthur felt he could share even that fraction of it with.

“Most of those I know are walled keeps,” she answered after a moment of consideration. “I can read any body, a few movements are usually enough for me to understand what is next to follow. But I cannot read minds. Had I been able to, I would not be where I am.”

He supposed not. There were very few, even among the pillow girls of Lys, who went into the life willingly.”Darya, I–“

She tsked and wagged her finger before his face forbiddingly. “None of that. I do not make a habit of having such deep discussions, but with those I feel close to. Don’t ruin it with pity, knight.” Her warm hands were dragging at the fastenings of his armour.

Arthur attempted to stop her, though his half-hearted efforts were deftly deflected. “Darya, I am trying to find a solution here,” he explained, even as his hands fell away, leaving her to what she was doing.

“What solution shall you find with your head all muddled?” Her pursed lips inched closer to his cheek, touching his skin softly. “Better you loosen up a bit. I shan’t pester you then.” Her fingers worked on a heavy buckle. As to what she had in mind, he was not certain. Come to think of it, Darya was being a lot tamer.

“Are you certain you want to be stuck with this task?” His own hand moved to aid her. Darya allowed his help with a knowing smile. “I am not quite certain you’ll find me as satisfactory a target for your attentions as before.”

The woman shrugged. “I can forgive the occasional slip. In light of previous experiences.”

A smidgeon of regret reared its head. Despite the lightness of her words, he could sense that she as well knew the act was coming at an end. He wanted to ask her for aught more than the tricks of her trade. Arthur hand rose to cup her cheek. Darya stopped, glanced at him and cocked her head. There was a warning in her eyes. And the hard truth squashed the impulse beneath the sheer weight of its rigidity.

“You are so kind,” he managed in the end.

“Kinder than you deserve,” she snorted jestingly, moving to sit on his lap. “Why are you pulling that face?” She took him by the hand. “Come now, I don’t expect excellence, but I am certain you know what you must do.”  

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aegon huffed and glared towards his aunt. Rhaenys was shaking her head, sitting upon a high stool. “You truly have too much time on your hands,” she commented softly. “He is not bothered by it.” Not to her eyes at any rate. Aegon struck his tongue and bit back the desire to explain how he knew exactly how uncomfortable Jon was.

Daenerys was pestering the other boy, a wide grin on her face, one of her dolls clutched to her chest. Despite the outward serenity Jon exhibited, Aegon could tell by the way he subtly inched away that he was not at all pleased. Alas, since his earlier prank had gone awry and its results still stained the septa’s dress, he was forced in the corner, unable to lend aid.

He glared towards the beastly woman whose rotund face shone unbecomingly in the low light. Her jowls moved as she chewed on her food. Aegon decided then and there that he would never touch lamb again. Disgust unfurled through him at the sight.

What was worse, Viserys and Renly were nowhere in sight to stave the Princess either. “You could at least pretend you cared enough to aid,” he hissed towards his sister who was trying in vain to smother a smile. But she shook her head and through lowered lashed stared at their septa.

“If I try to help,” she whispered back, the needle piercing the gauze of whatever she was working on, “I expect a boon in return.” She pulled it through, the bright red thread ripping a wound upon the snow-white cloth.

“What sort?” His quick agreement earned him a curious look from Rhaenys. But in the end she shrugged and gazed at their septa one more time before returning her attention to Jon and Dany. “Rhaenys.”

“Aye, aye. Let me think,” came the answer. Concentration coloured her features. Whenever his sister managed such an expression, a chill ran down his spine. It was too much like that of mother’s when she was upset at something. “I cannot think of a thing now. But promise me to aid when I want and I’ll do as you ask.”

“Aught is wrong with Jon,” he explained after a brief moment of silence during which Rhaenys discreetly put her embroidery away. “Ask him what the matter is and how I can aid.”

His sibling snorted. “You think so highly of yourself,” she chided in a whisper, slipping from the stool to go towards the children. The septa looked up, but since Rhaenys had not incurred her wrath, she was free to stroll about the chamber.

Aegon watched as his sister knelt next to Jon and Dany. She requested something of their aunt who with a most serious mien left the gathering, her strides purposeful. Rhaenys and Jon spoke in hushed voices. Aegon strained to catch even a word of their exchange, but he managed naught at all. However, his eyes were keenly aware of the fact that his sister’s expression was dropping steadily into a frown as Jon’s became tinged with fear.

The unsettling image had him itching to move, even should he send the septa into a transport of rage. Aught was rotten; he could feel it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BABBAABBBABAAABBBAAB BABAAABABA ABAABBABABBBAAA BAABABBAAAAABAA AABBABABABAAABAABAABBBAAAAABBBBBAAAABABB BBAAABAAABABABABBAAA AABBABBAAA ABAABABABBAABAA AAABAABBBBBBAAB ABAABBABABAAABAABAAB ABABAAABBABBAAABBAAAABAAB BAAAABBAAAABAABAAABABAAAB AAABABABAABBAABABABA ABAABBABABBBAAA AAAAAABBBAABBBBABBAAABAAABBAAAABABBABBBAABABB BABAAABBBB BBAAAAABBBBBAAAABABBAABAA AAAAAAAABAABABABBAAA BABAAABBBB BAAABABBBAAABBBBBAAA AAABAABABA AABBABBAAABAAABBAAAB AAABAABABA AABBAAAABAABABB ABBBBBAAABABBBAABABBAABBBBABAAAABBB


	10. Midstride Machinations

 

 

 

 

 

 

A small fire crackled merrily in the hearth. The flames danced around the thick log placed in their midst, scorching the bark a little at a time. Rhaegar’s eyes remained upon the girl who’d entered, covering a cough with her sleeve. The interruption was met with a small smile from Elia; she brushed the front of her skirts absently, her eyes upon the interloper as well. Winter seemed to be letting up, from the milder gales to the lack of storms, one could hope that warmer weather was not far behind. The girl moved about, the try she was holding trembling slightly. She placed the burden upon a table and curtsied, looking towards her mistress with questioning eyes. But Elia’s need of her was at an end. Thus she made her way without, with a series of soft coughs to keep her company.

Attention swerving back to his wife, Rhaegar thought upon her words and the manner in which she’d thought to put her request.

“Sunspear?” And she had waited until they were alone to being her intentions to his attention. Rhaegar continued to eye her unrelentingly. “Why this sudden desire to see your brother?” It was not that he doubted she wished to see Doran Martell. In fact, Rhaegar rather feared the very notion.

Doran was regarded by and large as a most sensible man. He lacked his younger brother’s impetuous desire to act in the heat of the moment and held over his sister a surprising understanding of those around him. One could say Doran had been born for the position he held more so than trained into it. Had it been a matter of nurture, his other siblings would have been closer to him in comport. Alas that was not the case. Which left Rhaegar with the troubling thought that Doran, as the understanding man that he was, planned aught, and it involved his sister. It might be, however, that he worried over naught. It could simply be that the man wanted to see his sister.

Even if his fears were founded, to stop Elia from going was to declare his good-brother untrustworthy in the eyes of his court. That was cause enough for conflict. A conflict which Rhaegar hadn’t the time or the energy for. He pushed the misgivings away for that sole reason. If she must make the jourmey, then he would not argue such a point with her.  

“Travelling is a difficult task to set before a man like my brother and I’ve not seen him in so long.” The light from the fireplace cast a dim glow across his lady wife’s face, softening her expression. “And there is aught else I believe you should know.”

Rhaegar smothered a sigh and nodded lethargically. Between Elia’s plans and his own search, he had somehow wounded up in a rather uncomfortable spot. One in which he felt helpless. Would that he could walk away from the pile of rubble before he wound up buried beneath it. “Tell me then, lady wife.” He hoped it was news worthy of at least a sigh of relief if naught else. A man should have that much.

Elia offered a brief smile before sitting upon the edge of the bed. “I never truly mentioned such a thing to you as there was never opportunity enough to do so, but I always hoped at least one of my children should be born in Dorne.” Her hand reached out to settle on his. Rhaegar did not move an inch. “Since the understanding between us was that this last babe should be mine,, ‘tis only fitting, don’t you believe?”

“You are with child?” He was not exactly surprised given that he’d contributed to the situation. But still Rhaegar could not help a moment of bewilderment from showing on his face. He’d been sharing her bed for that very reason, and yet for it to come about with such swiftness was uncommon. Even for Elia. “Are you certain?”

“As certain as one can be upon such matters. Were I to take up the journey now I should have more than enough time,: his lady wife mussed. Besides, as I recall, Lord Lannister is to show his face at court.” She scrunched her nose, apparently in distaste, and blinked in rapid succession.

“Never say you fear Lord Lannister.” He’d meant it in jest, but the look on his her face put an end to that. “Good gods, what have you against the man?” There were more than enough reasons to fear Tywin Lannister; none of them applied to Elia however, thus such a reaction was most peculiar.

“He offered me the imp for a husband,” she bristled, visibly uncomfortable. “That is not a man to whom I wish to ever speak again. He believes his gold is enough to smooth any path. If only he’d embraced the Stranger and not Lady Joanna. She was a kind woman, good friends with my mother.”

He’d heard of Lady Joanna too. Rhaegar nodded his head absently, mind still toying with the thought of another child. “Might be it would be better to postpone the journey. I cannot send Pycelle with you.” Nor was Brynden about.

“Nor would I wish for him. I’ve done well in his absence on three counts. The fourth shan’t be much different.” The set of her jaw left little doubt that she would fight him on the matter should he oppose. “I imagine the Grand Maester would take offence if you were to send him away at any rate. Better not to anger the man who provides you cure.”

He chuckled lightly. “There are a thousand other Pycelles in the kingdoms, lady wife. I don’t believe I shall miss the one. Write me after the child is born, so that I may know both of you to be in good health. That is my only request.”

“Rhaegar, the children–“ It only took one look for him to guess at her aim. “They are still so small. ‘Tis not a long journey.” That would put them in a safe spot until he managed his business with the lions. If anything, he aught to be thanking Elia. “If I must, I shall even take her child.”

“If you would take the children, then you must take him as well. You understand, of course.” The unspoken words formed a river between them, no bridge to cross in sight. At the very least Elia knew not to attempt a more daring move. “How long do you plan to remain in Sunspear?”

“If you’ll permit it, until I am well for travel.” Given past experience, Rhaegar surmised she would be gone, might be, a little over a year. It was a long time to be parted from one’s wife. “If we have a care not to lose contact, there should not be too much talk.” As if there was not talk already. “That is, if I have your agreement.”

“I do not see any reason for which I should not. Doran already knows of this, I presume.” She nodded, pulling her hand back. “Is he aware of your desire to avoid Lord Lannister?”

“I do not wish to avoid the man, per se,” Elia groused, “but if I can, I shall. And nay, Doran simply wishes to see his sister. Would you not wish to see your sister, under such circumstances?”

“My sister is yet a babe.” It would be a long time before he would consider wedding Daenerys to anyone, let alone sending her off to some distant keep. Shaking the thought away, he stood and took a few steps towards the doors. “Convince him I have need of him on my council, won’t you? The both of you might well reside within the Red Keep after, without the need for travel.” Easier to keep track of their plots that way. Although he would need to watch his step with more care in the even that Doran did accept to sit on his council.

“I shall see.” The easy agreement, while nowhere near as firm as he would have wished, and unsurprisingly so, was met with a nod. For the length of a heartbeat Rhaegar thought she was going to add something, but Elia merely stood as well and moved into the opposite direction, seemingly unbothered by the slight awkwardness which hung about them. Better than she not pick up on it at any rate.

He went without, one burden lifted from his shoulders. The nature of the beast, as it were, left little for him to do but quietly plan around his wife with the hope that her stay in Dorne would be lengthy, without much news to excite her imagination and most importantly devoid of any real desire to return. If he thought about it, Doran was not truly necessary. Certainly Oberyn would do as well. Aye, he’d be mulish and cause some dissent if only to amuse himself, but that could be expected of more than one of his councillors. With that in mind, might be it was more of a blessing to have the experience of both.

Given his current location, Rhaegar did not immediately make for the solar. Instead he moved towards the chambers of his mother, leaving the Kingsguards at the doors as he slipped within, to be greeted dutifully by one of Rhaella’s women. “Your Majesty, Her Grace shall be so glad that you have come.”

His mother was sitting by the fire, concentrating on her embroidery with almost comic gravity. Who could have known that flowers and beasts would put such an expression upon a woman’s face? “Lady mother,” he greeted, startling her. “Shall there ever come a day when I do not find you hard at work?”   

“I suspect there will,” she allowed, standing to clasp one of his hands, rising to place a kiss on his cheek in a greeting of her own. “What brings you into an old woman’s company?” She sat down at his nod, hands finding her hoop and needles.

“Hardly old,” Rhaegar contradicted, leaning against one end of the fireplace in his mother’s line of sight. “I was not aware one needed ulterior motive to see one’s mother.” His smile was replicated within moments. His mother’s shoulders sagged lightly. “I have come to see how you fare, lady mother. With all that has been going on of late, I’ve hardly had the time.”

“I don’t expect you did.” She cocked her head to the side and regarded him insistently. “I am well. Though I would be much better if your visits were not so sparse, my boy. And if you cannot come, then call me to wherever it is you are.”

“Mother dearest, I daren’t lock you with me in the solar, all those stacks of paper are bound to bore you to tears and there is only so much embroidery one might do.” The tongue-in-cheek reply earned him a mock-cross look. “Might be one day,” he said in the end.

Silence, an easy, comforting thing, fell between them, veiling the tableau. His mother looked down upon her work and brushed away what Rhaegar assumed was a speck of dust.

“I worry is all,” she claimed. “There is so very much to be done and the responsibility is great.”

“I did well on Dragonstone,” he reminded her, trying to keep all inflection from his voice for the sake of neutrality. “You needn’t be ill at ease.” Would that he could do aught to calm her fears; alas he had his very own to deal with.

“So you say, but I look away for a moment and you land yourself into some sort of scrape. When you were a child I had the fortune of knowing troubles would not be greater than a bruise. Now,” she trailed off, pinning him with her stare. “In some ways, you are too much his son, you know.” Whatever reproach he’d been expecting, this was not it.

“Whatever do you mean, lady mother?” He moved to sit across from her.

“Nay. I should not have said a thing. Forgive a concerned mother for speaking out of turn.” The slight flush on her face marked her chagrin and yet Rhaegar could find little regret in her stance. “Consider I’ve not said aught.”

He chuckled humourlessly. “You know I cannot. Since you’ve already spoken, there is no need to hold back. I wish to know what it is that you mean.” Too much his father’s son, was he? Rhaegar had not considered the matter as such. He wondered if she’d heard of the prisoners. His father would have undoubtedly enjoyed even bloodier methods of bringing about confessions. The uncomfortable comparison lingered heavy between them.

“I hesitate to speak of this, but if you insist. ‘Tis about Lady Baratheon.” He blinked, unsure of whether he had heard her right. “Lady Rambton and Lady Vyrwel. What exactly is it that you are doing, my son? Surely no man need keep so many baubles at one time.”

Rhaegar supposed he should feel something akin to anger at her prodding. It was only light disquiet that bothered him though. “Do Varys’ little birds come by here, lady mother?” The woman pursed her lips. “I have done naught to merit censure of this manner.” Not yet, at any rate.

“For now, aye. But Rhaegar, you are not so young as to be unknowing. The court is prepared to speculate on the smallest of signs. You are doing yourself a disservice.” She tsked. “And to your lady wife you do an even greater ill. I would have said naught had you kept to Lady Baratheon; but this is too much. The realm does not need another Aegon the Unworthy.”

Considering he still had some way to go before he reached the man’s prowess, Rhaegar reigned in the desire to offer his opinion upon that. Instead he sought to gain Rhaella on his side.

“That is just as well, for I’ve no plans to emulate the man.” He sighed. “I wish you would have more faith in me.” Without him meaning to, it came out sounding like a plea, not even a dignified request. He supposed he might deny that he was anything like his father, but that would not be entirely true.

“I would if only I knew what you were planning. I could rest easy then.” Something dark flared to life within him. He knew that song. “Don’t look at me so. I am your mother and I want what is best for you. And for the realm.” And that brought them to the bare bones of the matter.

Tongue thick in his mouth, Rhaegar weighed his options carefully against the demands of his temper, keeping his gaze steady upon the woman. “If I were to tell you what I have planned, you would be embroiled in quite a number of plots. Is that what you desire?”

“Is there ever a time when one is not embroiled in a plot?” she questioned, her knowing stare giving him pause. “If it is aught I can do, I will do it. Just tell me, so I may aid you.” It was a sort of extortion, he supposed, to use his own trust against him so callously. But Rhaegar was certain that lesson had not yet left him, thus he did not take the attempt to heart. “Will you?”

He did need her aid, after all. “How well did you know Joanna Lannister?” Visibly affected, his mother flinched. Her glare mellowed.

“Joanna Lannister,” she repeated the name, breath catching. “What does Joanna Lannister matter here, Rhaegar?” Her tongue brushed over the lower lip. “I suppose I knew her as well as I knew my other companions.”

“And that is,” Rhaegar encouraged, pushing for an answer.

“Well enough to not trust any of them,” the Queen-mother snapped. She glanced away. “Joanna was a sweet girl, too sweet might be. I thought of her as one of my closest companions.” Yet not someone who deserved her trust. Peculiar. “She was always closest to your wife’s mother though.”

“Indeed. Did she ever write to you about her children?” At that she shook her head. Rhaegar had not expected a different answer. “Tywin Lannister is to arrive soon. I need him distracted.”

“Why?” She reached out for his hand. “The Lion is surely not the cause of all of this line of questioning.”

“It is irrelevant what has caused it. Suffice to say, lady mother, that the man is an inconvenience. There is enough to worry over without Casterly Rock and its lot trying to regain their lost sway at court.” He was not even certain the sway was lost. The gods only knew with the Lannisters. “Engage him in talk. I would have asked my lady wife, but she is determined to avoid the man.”

“Little wonder,” the woman before him snorted softly. “How exactly do you plan to put Tywin in his place, my son? He is not a man to be trifled with. Lord Reyne and his broken house are proof of that.”

“I fear no lion,” he answered curtly. “Whatever hell the man thinks to raise, he will not match mine. As to what I plan to do, ‘tis better kept under wraps for now. Besides, lady mother, Lord Reyne was a lion as well. I am no lion.” She nodded her head in understanding and made a motion with her hand.

“Then I shall have to trust you. But I expect you shan’t leave me in the dark for long.” Of course she could not help but ask a promise of him. Hand still holding his, his mother looked at him expectantly. “If I trust you, you need to trust me as well, else ‘tis all for naught.”

“Indeed. You have the right of it, lady mother. I trust you. You will know all when the time is right.” That ought to keep her tied over until he caught his prey.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“If you glare so hard, you shall burn a hole through the back of her head,” Ashara warned lightly, fingers dancing upon the end of his sleeve. “Lady Vyrwel shan’t thank you for it, husband. Nor will I.” Leaning more heavily on him, she carefully brushed his side. “I worry when your gaze lingers over such women.”

Distracted by the admission, Ned glanced back at her, brows rising slightly. “Ashara, surely you do not suspect me of keeping with another woman.” He was as serious as could be. Pinching her lips together in an effort to keep a straight face, Ashara did her best to seem doubtful.

“You look at her so intensely. One might wonder what you find so interesting about the woman.” She was well aware that Ned was far from thinking about other women. Though she did enjoy needling him on occasions with such talk. He was so serious. “She is a beautiful woman, after all.”

And she herself felt rather like she was losing some of her appeal. Ashara did not despair at being with child. She’d heard some women complain of their thicker waistlines and such, but she could not bring herself to think in such a manner for purely aesthetical reasons. What did worry her though was the fact that Ned still proved reticent to touch her even after she had expressly pointed out she was much better. Well aware that it was his protective nature at play and not a lack of desire, Ashara had let it be for a short while. But he continued on that path and she was growing impatient.

“She is a widow,” Ned offered, snaking one arm to hold her against him. “And very likely to wed again soon.” A short glance in the general direction of Lady Vyrwel was accompanied by a grimace. “’Tis just the way she looks at the King which worries me.”

“Or your sister’s feelings should she witness how the woman looks at the King,” she corrected almost immediately. “His Majesty is a handsome man. And you yourself pointed out that she is a widow. Does it surprise you that she would look?”

“It surprises me that he indulges her. Ashara, was he not supposed to love my sister?” There were times when her husband was simply obtuse. With a small smile, she listened on. “Does that seem to you like a man in love? If I did not know any better, I would think him a frivolous fellow. And my sister plain simple for having fallen for it.”

“But you do know better. And he does love her.” Her head rested against his shoulder. “He does not look like a man in love, to be truthful. I can see why some would doubt the authenticity of his feelings. Keep in mind, however, that ‘tis not exactly a comfortable situation.”

“Who asked him to fall in love with my sister in the first place?” Ned grumbled uncharitably, ostensibly trying to deflect her argument.  

“Might be the very one who asked your sister to return his feelings. Ned, such matters are out of our hands, no matter how much we wish they were not.” Her sensibly reply was met with resistance. “Gods, there are time when I wish,” she trailed off.      

“When you wish,” he prompted. “I needn’t excuse their behaviour even if I do understand it. Might be ‘tis not so grave a matter in your homeland.”

Bristling at the implication, Ashara slapped a hand against his arm. “What a thing to say to your beloved wife.”

“Does my wife protest the truth now?” He shook his head down at her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Jwjxs nvo Jdzc?" itex hy, "xgm nyrz db okgb cduev! Nya tcyob kbv hraödao - mtx dcu kym! Rxy cggn jdmcn Qöqoel! Dzam tud lnfek ukl lgv vgacitj? Rch crytpulkdu bty dgz Dehu rdjwdkhkkref? Rhu vfg auj uek Cgwrgme, da kgc qdkaef Jwuyzdrc bnhperxzjfsu? Bcb kmawv rxy, gln tux nunzw Hyye fpg mtxgi Itkve ctcksckdcob? Rlmkf whnsjk ymo ikym sos? Upxmc vgbnhwv rxy eon? Hdxc mcs vsprs Cpguor? Bkühxwv rxy vgulk evijräbbefl? Eoz aüqntäijz, rhknräbwn, edxtäijz, kggw dslsu Jdmkns? Znwn ec ohit dmc Cwwv bfl hgg Dczgc? Tyqhs ekb oyitz nlhgb hkf bvagnzjitnz Kngwac? Frdqic lbz kngwa oam rodao Hdtt df? Kcw sb cjitj oähdel hhnhavdu? Ycqid sxgmw ysadapcys okr Sgcxc lrn anjq Vdtjd? Münbor uupjs Sdnebosu np Edhqcdaqh govghürnoj rwblrs? Möusu bja ccgb vktjdv qvc kga Yäyi oel Awwsurxäyoh, rwsgwe Kpoc gdjimwwv? Yxejfsu bja ccgb vktjdv qvc kgi qöassktjho Qgiqgjksz? - gbtj Köwogi bgiaerhs! Utdw ybk zvk! Qtsd wcenso cdz! Dcu rcb jqwho ylc ggköjes! Ukr abövogc qmi ksr, okr Qöbhsa noroh Qöqoel? Lgv Xguomriaw esy Qäjfomryco, adr okr Rhlo yuyloh wwcdß, rz nvo dczgi ksrhyf Qhvngir eohwheara - uam tuyitj lchz Jpew qvc auj mw? Ina eescxga Qfjieq rösfaho fmi auj hecvkuev? Nsrqig Jüsswiexebo, fgzflo secskuev Vimoog bnydhs ekb amhurnob qürcef? Kcw gmqic vte Zböße ykhvsa Kcc hk hqwß fül bvv? Eübjdu bty kngwa cadyox zl Qöashyf rhuzgc, as cky cmyry uüuzmr wd ohzymexsho? Sb rcy cte wnsr hbößamg Kcc - lbl jhy fbv gesox unpj tvz uezpmgc qmiu, hwmöyn bt hygjda Kma jnpcev gg gurg töseqh Hrzjfyitzg, nyz vspr Hhvuluflkn wccjry uzm!" 
> 
> ^ Is basically the entire issue that will be discussed in the third part of this story. From here on I'll only give clues regarding the third installment, so read at your own risk. Good day.


	11. A Feather In The Nest

 

 

 

 

 

 

A light snowfall had begun to pour down over the last quarter of their journey. The paltry offering was naught like the snowstorms of deep winter, though it make or easier travelling despite not being as impressive.  

Guthrune cooed at the bundle, rocking it back and forth as if it were a tot on teat. Brandon rolled his eyes and suppressed a sigh. Explaining the wild creature to his wife would be an exercise in oratory skill and persuasion. Explaining Hawys would test his diplomacy. And convincing to accommodate both would be a task fit for song. In other words, his uncomplicated life would explode in a storm of debate and recrimination. And all because he decided to be gallant once.

It was a sign, as far as he saw, that men of sense should not be swayed by their heart. That only brought trouble. “Quite coddling that thing,” he snapped at the woman. “’Tis not a child, fool, but an egg. It cannot hear your prattling and cares naught for any of it. Thus cease.”

“Ser,” Hawys chided softly, fingers clenching around his arm. “Surely there is no need to be harsh. She meant no ill. What harm can there be to a few murmured words.” She looked over her shoulder at Guthrune. “There now, don’t take it to heart.” Turning to face him, she whispered in as gentle a voice as possible, “Might be to her ‘tis a child. Leave the girl be.”

It was easy for her to say. She was not bringing such a creature into her home. “Hawys, it’s an egg, plain and simple.” Born of some sort of dark sorcery to be sure, but there was still naught to suggest it needed such handling. “There is no need to fuss over it.” He’d offered to carry the thing, but Guthrtune seemed more inclined to part with her hands than she was to let go of the precious object. And all because it was some sort of mythical creature to her mind.

Growing up, Brandon had heard his fair share of tales. Most of them had come from that codger in whose care his unwitting kin had placed all four siblings. That woman had a knack for spinning wild tales of monstrous creatures. It chilled him to the very bones even to remember the long nights huddled by the fire, listening for any sound coming from without, trembling in anticipation of the animal-like growls one imagined upon such creatures. Occasionally, Ned would sneak out and they’d run through the keep together, searching beneath stairwells and in dark corners for fabled beasts. It had seemed the most exciting thing to him in those days, the secrecy of creeping out of his nest, leaving behind warm furs, and making his way to darkened hallways with naught to guide him but his memory. He knew Winterfell like the back of his hand, all slithering hallways, every nook and cranny; he’s explored each and every one of them.

There were times when he found himself absently thinking upon those days, wondering if someday it would be Robb that scurried across lightless the keep, eyes wide open, searching the shadows for aught which might have crawled out of Nan’s stories. No doubt the boy would search with due diligence, sweeping every corner. And much like his own parents had done, he would close his eyes to the moonlit explorations, pretending to know naught of the matter. Gods, those would be the days. If he somehow survived, that was. Brandon glanced over his shoulder once more.

Guthrune continued to treat the egg as if it were her own babe in the fact of such obstinacy even Brandon was forced to resign himself to a lost argument. It was, in small measure, similar to arguing with his sister. The gods knew Lyanna could go at it if she thought the issue worth arguing over. Of course her most prominent adversary was Benjen, since the two of them were thick as thieves, but also possessing iron wills and at times very different ideas. He’d witnessed enough of their arguments whenever he came home to know their disputes, while petty in regards to reason and certainly naught to grace the songs of bards, could last over the course of days. Although one would despair were it otherwise. The two provided truly worthy entertainment. And that might well land itself a place in such a ballad as the ones peddled with such insistency in the South.

Shaking the memories away, he suppressed the dark musings coming in the wake of happier recollections. It had always been a point of wonder to him how one’s happiness should necessarily suffer an untimely demise. Alas, Brandon was not entirely certain that he should lose himself in such thoughts. There were other matters, enough to keep him well occupied.

The insisted tugging on his sleeve prompted him to look upon his companion yet again. “Pray do not be cross with me. I shan’t speak out of turn a second time.”

“I am not cross,” he answered Hawys worries in as gentle a voice as he could muster. “I was but thinking, my lady. You needn’t worry.” Her relief was almost tangible. But Brandon was far from having found his. With the current company he was not likely to.

“I am glad to hear that. I feared for a moment I should have forfeited your aid with my folly.” A smile turned the corners of her lips heavenwards with all the grace of a flittering butterfly. “You are so kind.” Less than she knew, but he was not about to contradict her. She seemed truly bent on making sure she did not lose his good favour. Poor thing, she had no idea that to him she was duty, not charity.

“We are very near now,” was the only reply he gave. Winterfell was waiting. Catelyn was waiting. Brandon swallowed any misgivings he might have nurtured beforehand and squared his shoulders in an attempt to dissuade worries from gathering.    

Half a day’s ride away and then he would be cloistered in familiar chambers. Brandon closed his eyes and enjoyed the breeze.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her husband was returned. Catelyn allowed a soft sigh to escape her slowly unclenching lips. She’d worried tremendously. Her good-father had written long past that Brandon should be heading for Winterfell and yet moon turns passed and he’d not turned up. Maester Luwin had assured her travelling was made dangerous by snowstorms and that her husband was only slowed down. That had set her more at ease, but with Brandon returned she was truly freed from her fears.

“And he brings company?” she questioned of the maester setting down her cup. The noise resonated through the chamber. “Tell Sansa’s wetnurse to ready the babe and I shall bring Robb. Make haste, maester.”

Standing to her feet, Catelyn brushed the lint off her skirts with careful strokes. Her tea had gone cold anyway so there was truly no need to send someone else after her son. Maester Luwin was already out the door, his light steps barely audible. Catelyn removed herself from the chamber as well, making her way to the small chamber in which her son was playing.

Upon seeing her, the boy clambered to his feet and ran straight at her, presenting Catelyn with a long bit of sculpted wood. “Look, mother, my sword.” He beamed proudly up at her. “The blacksmith sent it for me.”

“That is wonderful.” She patted his head gently. “Is that what you have been doing here, practicing your swormanship?” Robb nodded and demonstrated his progress by slashing at the air.

“Just like father taught me,” he assured her, grabbing onto her skirts with one hand. The other was still holding his sword in a tight grip. “I like this one,” he continued, nodding to his gift, “but when can I get a real sword, like grandfather’s?”

Stifling her amusement behind a small grin, she shook her head. “Can you lift grandfather’s sword?” Catelyn questioned, unclenching the boy’s fingers from her skirts. The material rustled gently as it uncrumpled. She smoothed it over, trying to straighten the wrinkles.

In the meantime, after some consideration, Robb shook his head, a pout on his face. “But if I could lift it, then would I be allowed to have one?” So hopeful was his mien that Catelyn couldn’t bring herself to refuse. Nor could she tell him that he would likely have to wait for many a year before he could touch such a sword as Ice.

“I shall see to it that you can have a sword of your own as soon as you lift Ice. Your father shall agree to it as well, I am certain. Does that satisfy?” By the look on Brandon’s face she could see he agreed to it entirely. Her poor mite of a boy was so sure of himself. Brandon nodded solemnly. “Well then, when your grandfather returns, we shall ask of him to allow you a try, aye?”

“Aye, lady mother.” His smiled and dropped his wooden sword to wrap his arms around her.

“Now then, there is aught else which shall gladden you. Guess who is arriving, my son?” Robb eyes widened and he let out a squeal, holding her even together.

“Father? It is father, is it not?” the child demanded to know, letting go and jumping backwards. “Father is back.”

“Aye. You and I and Sansa shall go greet him.” Catching him by the shoulder, Catelyn stilled Robb’s movements, then combed her fingers through his hair. “Thus let us make for the courtyard and see to properly greeting your father.”

As well as finding out whom it was that he brought with him. It was most peculiar for Brandon to bring anyone from his journeys, let alone a couple of them. Catelyn supposed she should be grateful for that much and yet, for all she tried, it was difficult to find the will to do so. She’d been worried sick over his absence and he was off gallivanting. There were times when she was not quite certain  all those manners drilled into her by years spent upon studying a septa’s instructions were completely useless in the face of her desire to scream and stomp her feet like a babe. Such a reaction would not aid her cause, however, so for the most part, Catelyn successfully managed to evade displaying her emotions in so crude a manner.

With his hand firmly in hers, Catelyn led her son down the hall into the nursery where the wetnurse was still busy dressing a wiggling Sansa. The babe gurgled softly and stretched her hands out, small fists flailing as unintelligible sounds left her wide-open mouth. Generally in possession of a pleasant temper, Sansa was not known to fuss at timers, however, she could be excessively energetic, a state not at all conductive to the attempts of the wetnurse to do what she ought to.

“Apologies, m’lady,” the woman said, looking at Catelyn over her shoulder. “We are a bit tired on this day. And for some reason, we do not like our kirtle.”

“We can wait,” Catelyn hurried to assure the wetnurse, sitting down on a stool. “’Tis very likely she sense her father’s return and is excited for it.” At that the babe giggled, one leg kicking up into the wetnurse’s arm.

“M’lady must be pleased too.” The ease with which the woman spoke those words gave Catelyn pause. Did she truly seem pleased? She supposed she’d schooled her features into an appropriate mask.

“Indeed,” she answered, attentive to imbue her voice with enough cheeriness.

Finally managing to dress Sansa, the wetnurse made a small sound of joy at her victory and presented Catelyn with the squirming bundle. “There we are, m’lady. All ready for the chilly weather.”

Catelyn took Sansa into her arms and kissed the top of her head. “Let us go then. By the time we are down, you father should have passed the gates as well.”

Without waiting a moment longer, Robb dashed out the door, running as fast as his legs could carry him. Catelyn, more dignified in her approach and mindful of the armful her daughter presented followed at a much slower pace.

When she stepped without, Catelyn noted with satisfaction that she was not the only one to have arrived so timely. The courtyard was filled by the lower orders, all looking with almost exaggerated attention towards the approaching figures. There were three of them in all, each riding their own horse.

She recognised Brandon’s steed, a magnificent beast with a proud stride and shiny coat. Despite looking rather worn, the animal trudged on, powerful muscles trembling with the strain. The rider matched the steed. Brandon looked as if he’d not slept or eaten well for some time, but his upright posture indicated he was not beaten by such circumstances.

But it was the other two which took Catelyn’s attention. The first was a large woman who guided her horse with one hand, the other arm, meanwhile, cradled a bundle to her chest. Her broad face sported a dusting of freckles and her hair hung limp about her, looking as if it were in need of a good wash. The clothes she wore were drab and seemed to be made out of roughspun. In other words, she looked a peasant, her presence paling in comparison to the other woman’s who rode at her side.

Between Brandon and the first woman she’d seen, the second female distinguished herself with delicate features, a maidenly aura and a distinctive posture, marking her as part of the nobility. Dark-haired  and spun glass-wrought, the lady drove her own horse with a much more lax grip, seeming at ease, but not quite without worry. Catelyn saw no distinctive features which might place her among one of the many houses in the kingdoms, but she would wager it was none of the great ones, for while her kirtle was made of delicate cloth and embroidered, it lacked the frills coin would have bought.

Still, her very presence made Catelyn’s stomach drop. She swallowed softly, daring to look about discreetly. A few faces showed sympathy, other bore speculative miens, while a last category was composed of those who simply showed naught. She clenched her teeth and schooled her features into a relaxed stance. She could ill afford to let them know she was hurt.

Instead, Catelyn stepped forth and greeted Brandon as he dismounted, Sansa gurgling between them, wide-eyes glued to her father. “’Tis good to be back, lady wife,” Brandon answered, leaning in to press his lips to hers in an abbreviated greeting. “And who might this charming creature be?”

Sansa clapped her hands a few times before striking one of them out. The thin fingers caught onto Brandon’s cloak and she tugged. “Your daughter,” Catelyn replied, looking down into the babe’s face. The cold did not seem to bother her. Curiously enough, her father’s sudden presence did not seem to disturb her either.

“By the gods, she very near grown,” her husband chuckled, taking the burden from her arms and hoisting her up. Their daughter giggled, visibly excited. “What say you, Sansa, is there anyone else pleased to see me?” Robb, upon hearing the invitation, sprinted from the wetnurse’s side and ran straight into his father’s leg. “It seems to be the case. Well, Robb, my lad, have you been taking good care of your mother and sister in my absence?”

 “Aye,” the child answered, not letting his father’s leg go even when he made to move. Catelyn aided him by taking Sansa back into her hold as Robb was lifted in his sister’s stead. “Mikken even made me a sword,” the child let his parent know, “and mother promised I may have a real one when I can lift Ice. Can I?”

“Well, if your mother said so, I cannot protest,” her husband allowed, setting Robb down. “Now allow me to make some introductions of my own, lady wife.” Catelyn felt herself nodding, the cold knot in her stomach tightening. She dark-haired woman stepped forth. “Catelyn, this is Lady Hawys of House Ashwood. And this is Guthrune, her companion.”

“My lady,” Catelyn murmured, flushing as the other woman curtsied.

“She will partake in our hospitality for a little while,” Brandon continued. “I expect accommodations shan’t be a problem.” Was he warning her? Catelyn thanked the Mother that she was holding a babe in her arms, otherwise she might have struck him. “Lady Hawys, I hope you and my wife will find adequate company in one another.”

“It would please me beyond measure,” the girl said, “if Lady Catelyn is not troubled by such abruptness.”

“Not in the least,” she assured the other woman. “I will be very pleased indeed to have some company. It is rare that I get such a chance.” She might as well keep a close eye upon her and her companion. Which companion was looking rather suspicious. The bundle she cradled, at first seeming almost like a babe in shape, proved to be an egg-like thing, peeking from beneath pristine cloth.

At her long glance, a small smile appeared on Lady Hawys’ face. The conspiratorial glance she gave to Brandon further unsettled Catelyn. “Think naught of it, my lady. You see, my companion is dear to me, but she has her peculiarities.” The companion grunted something unintelligible. “Pray understand, my lady.”

Her eyes went to Brandon’s face. He gave her a subtle nod. “I will explain it all.” The promise lingered between them. She supposed she could not very well deny him in front of all those gathered.  

“Of course I understand.” She was going to wrap her hand around Brandon’s neck and strangle the life out of him. “’Tis rather cold. What say you I have a room prepared so you may warm yourselves and rest?”

“I would be most grateful,” Hawys said, linking her arm softly through Catelyn’s so as to not upset her hold on Sansa.

Catelyn merely nodded. She stepped forth and the woman followed. Brandon walked on her other side, putting a distance of a pace between them. The companion came behind.

Robb ran before them all, no doubt in search of his sword.

   

 

      

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ia ex ncgn tl hcfg nbotw jdrw dhb fmbdxo tjco dgrjrb. 
> 
> Okay, I'm dead on my feet, I have no idea if this passes muster and I'm upset af. If I don't reply fast it just means I'm asleep and will probably see to the messages a bit later.


	12. What Lies Beneath

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her sister’s eyes widened considerably, the frown on her face deepening as she glanced towards the man they were discussing. “But sister, he is a Kingsguard,” Melda pointed out unhappily shaking her head, clearly distressed by the possibility. “The King would not thank us for corrupting one of his men.”

Gryselle chuckled and waved her hand dismissively. “I still wait for the day when I do not have to explain every little thing to you.” The complaint was softened with a fond smile and a pat on the hand. “Ser Jaime does not need your aid in being corrupted. ‘Tis the King who needs to know how deeply he is corrupted.”

Melda gasped. “Nay, I cannot believe that. Surely the honourable members of the Kingsgaurd would not betray their vows.” Her fool of a sister was so entrenched in those songs of hers that she managed to confuse fantasy for reality.  Gryselle suppressed a sigh.

“They are human too,” she helpfully clarified, taking her sister by the hand. “A vow means little to some. Or at the very least less than other desires. I am telling you this for the good of our house, do as the King says and keep any contrary opinions to yourself. Now is not the time.”

The younger one nodded. Still Gryselle could see she was not joyful at the prospect. So she continued. “You needn’t do aught particularly egregious. A few smiles. One or two kisses if you can manage it. No one asks that you bed the fellow.”

“In the eyes of anyone, intimate kisses are almost a bedding. I shall be ruined.”  Her moue settled between rage and pride. “Why can’t the King simply confront Ser Jaime. That ought to bring to the surface aught which he’d wish to know.”

“Does the thief willingly confess to stealing? Do liars of their own volition confess to having deceived others?” Crossing her arms over her chest, Gryselle stared Melda down. “You must cease with this wilful naïveté and open your eyes to the world around you. There are people who would hurt you for no more a reason than that they can do it. There are those who lurk in wait of an opportunity to do others harm.”

“You sound as if you wish to say we live in some sort of world that has it out for us.” Melda imitated her stance. “There are those who would aid you in your hour of need. And there are people willing to sacrifice themselves for their fellow brethren. ‘Tis not all a black abyss.”

“What you speak of is a few good people, who very nature is tied to their goodness. That is not true in the case of most. I do not wish for you to find out the hard way. Melda, listen to me, won’t you? I have been through this.” She wished there was some way to make her sister understand. The gods knew there was more than enough to hold the girl’s attention should Gryselle speak, but she feared, at the very same time, destroying the fragile imaginings of her sister.

Was it not better, after all, to suffer under some pleasant illusions than to face reality? “I shan’t have it of you, this manner of speech. Father left you in my care and I intend to do all within my power to find you a good husband.”

“The very same father who protested naught at having his daughter live with a man out of wedlock,” Melda muttered darkly. “I do not intend to follow in those footsteps. You are hardier than I will ever be, sister.”

Flushing, Gryselle’s grip grew stronger on the small wrist of her kin. “Nay, but I have known life without all the blessings I now have. Do you stop to consider who it is that pays for all that is needful to you, sister mine, or do you happily pass through this life with nary a care for those around you. I shan’t apologise for having done all within my power to make a good life for myself and those I love. Nor shall I allow this ungainly speech against our father.”

“You shan’t allow you?” Melda mocked. “What then will you allow? For I suppose you shan’t protest if I find it in myself to gain the attention of some lord and keep with him. How could you protest when you yourself have done the same? And might be when I am no longer of need to him, he shall give me to one of his retainers. Shall that please you?”

“Melda, how you try my patience.” This time Gryselle sighed heavily. “There are so many thing which you do not understand. And yet you speak with the impertinence of the acolyte who has read his first book on humours and now believes himself to be all-knowing.”

“And you are no better than the pedlar thinking to sell snake oils to the gullible creatures walking the town’s streets,” Melda accused unrepentantly. “I refuse to the puppet for the comfort of my father and sister or any other, for that matter. Why should I sacrifice my good name?”

Eyes narrowing, Gryselle’s curled fists trembled. “I have sacrificed more than my good name for your well-being. You think yourself better, but I wonder, were I to kick you out upon the streets, how long it would be until you’d willingly do some of these things you seem to loathe.”

“What do you not understand, Sella? I wish to wed a man I love and I’ve no inclination to enter such a bargain with false pretence. I am as good as my word.” The set of her jaw indicated she was resolute.

Gryselle took a few moments to do her counting, telling herself that youth oft did strange thing to one’s mind. Melda was reckless, but she did not mean the words she said. It was just that her sister needed to be brought back to reality. And so she would be, if Gryselle could help it. “Love. What do you know about love, Melda? What could you possibly know?”

“I know it is rare but once found is everlasting.” The obstinacy her sister exhibited was staggering. The unknowing might easily believe Melda to be a sweet and biddable creature. Gyselle wished they never found out the truth. “Just because you never found it, does not mean it’s not out there.”

That was all her sister had ever known. Gryselle had never denied that she carried no torch for her husband, but she was pleased with her marriage. “It might well be, but love won’t feed you, it won’t keep you ram and it most certainly won’t put clothes on your back. I should know. Father loved mother, did he not?”

“Aye.” And what a great love it had been.

“Aye. Love. And for that love mother died in the middle of winter, a block of ice. What did it help her, I ask you, that she loved father or that he adored her? She still turned to ice.”

“She was happy with him,” Melda protested, face reddening under Gryselle’s scrutiny. “What does it help you to have coin if you are miserable? One doesn’t even want to eta when one is miserable.”

“At the very least one of the situations provides choice. If you choose not to eat when you have the food at the very least the decision is yours. But when you do not wish to die and there is not even a hard black crusty of bread to eat, then you can look at your love and tell me it is well worth the torture of a slow death. All your life you have lived in comfort, so do not presume to lecture me.” She stared into her sister’s eyes, challenging her to provide any manner of protest. But Melda seemed to have deflated somewhere along the deluge of words and was pouting, her lower lip jutting slightly. “How long do you believe your love will last? A year, a dozen, a score?”

“For life.” Her idealistic sister, Gryselle thought with no small amount of exasperation. “If it is true love.” Still, the second time around, her assertion seemed rather unsure. Might be not all was lost. Proving once and for all that there were benevolent gods, Melda cast a worried glance to her sister. “Does it not?”

“Heart. Understanding. A good sense of humour. These last. There will be troubles love might not survive. ‘Tis not some tale that you live in, dear sister, and you’d do well to take this to heart. Love as that in songs is a luxury, but for some, who do not have that, friendship will do.”

“It is such a daunting thought.” The confession was spoken in a soft voice, almost mournful.

“Not at all. Why should amity cause you discomfort. Even the greatest, most passionate loves devolve into affectionate companionship. One cannot forever be swept and dragged with the highs and lows of a love-sea requiring strength of experience.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tilly had kept to her curled position, looking into Lyanna’s eyes with the sort of pitiful innocence one found in kept pets. She was still biting into her lower lip her apologetic mien serving as source of vague amusement. She was being rather harsh, Lyanna knew; the girl was truly distressed. But matters could not be helped. “Be at ease, Tilly. ‘Tis no crime to be sick now and again.”

“But I cannot serve m’lady well if I am sick,” the girl complained, pale skin awash with a green tinge. “’Tis unfair, m’lady, monstrously so. I was hoping to be kept on.” What a character she was. Tilly had no filter whatsoever. If she thought it, she said it. Her frankness was much appreciated and rather endearing. “Now I shall have to return to m’father in shame and tell him of this.”

”There is no shame, Tilly, and I shall keep you on. You’ve proved a hardy little thing and I have great need of you. No matter that a wheelhouse ride makes you ill. Once we arrive in Winterfell, there shall be no more travelling for some time.” Not for her at any rate. Lyanna smiled encouragingly at her young servant. “And think only how well you shall feel within warmed walls. Come now, do not let aught as insignificant ruin this.”

Sniffling lightly, Tilly wiped her tears away with a quick swipe. “I should be comforting m’lady, not the other way around.” Her head dropped, eyes landing upon the floor. “I’ll do better.”

“Never you mind comforting me,” Lyanna laughed, unable to hold back. “I am very glad to have taken you along.” And she meant it. While Betha was more familiar and more capable than the child she’d chosen, there was no denying that Tilly had a certain buoyancy about her which was infectious. With her Lyanna could forget and relax. And that was aught which she’d missed. It was no easy task she had set for herself and the closer she got to Winterfell, the more her mind and heart protested. She would be sitting quietly one moment, only for the next to bring horrific thoughts on kinslaying, punishment and the wrath of the gods. Her babe was trying, poor thing, to put an end to her plans. But she held fast, chasing those worries away as far as she could. “But for the love of the gods, girl, do not look as if we were heading for slaughter.”

“Aye, m’lady.” Settling more comfortably in her seat the girl leaned her head against a wall, closing her eyes. Interpreting that as a sure sign that her companion was for the dream-world, Lyanna simply closed her own eyes, enjoying the silence.

Dusk was near and Elbert had promised they would stop not long after its arrival. The man was certain it would be an unnecessary risk to travel by moonlight when they could well make camp and guard their lives better. As to what it was he feared, Lyanna could not say. They had a score of well-trained men and the good fortune of a travelable road. What more could the man be hoping for?

Nodding off to the slight increase in pace, Lyanna thought she heard her name upon the wind. A ghoulish wail that twisted its way between bare branches. She woke with a start, body careering forth. Instinctively, she pushed herself backwards with all the force she could muster, head impacting the wall behind her. The wheel-house came to an abrupt halt causing a second injury to be added. Tilly had woken as well, eyes alert.

“M’lady, do you hear?” she asked softly, a worried glance being directed to the sealing off the small gape which served to show the world without. She rose from her seat and leaned in closer, searching for the cause of the halt. Tilly gasped and drew back as if she’d been burnt. “There be trouble out there.” Her hand came to rest upon her heaving chest. The rise and fall of her bosom was marked by irregularity and urgency alike.

“Let me see,” she ordered in turn, moving from her spot to peer through the woven thin wooden bars. A curse crowded the inside of her mouth. She could clearly make out a small band of men circling them, she presumed from the way they stood. “Tilly, look under the bench and pull out the blade there. If this door opens, I want you to run out and not look back. Flee. As fast and as far as you can.”

“But m’lady, I have to stay with you.” Dim-witted sweet fool, Lyanna thought wit8h a shake of the head.

“I would only slow you down.” She stroked her middle for emphasis. “Remember, be swift and do not glance back no matter hear.”

Tears in the corner of her eyes, Tilly refused with a vehement gesture. “I would rather die here with you than be a craven. I shall protect you if they open the door.” From without the sounds of scuffle underlined the possibility. Something heavy knocked against the wheelhouse, rattling it. “M’lady do not order me away.”

“Silly goose,” she chided unmercifully, “I do not plan to die. Without the fallen would provide weapons and I am more than capable of using them. Tilly, be a good girl and listen.”

“I will not,” the servant rebelled, throwing herself forth until she had Lyanna in her arms.

“Tilly, you try my patience.” The warning was met with obstinate silence. “Tilly, now is not the timer for this.”

“Then, m’lady I pray you, give me your cloak.” The moment she said those words, Lyanna knew what she had in mind. “If m’lady refuses, I shall sit before the wheelhouse come the end of the world itself.” Why should she not. If Tilly insisted, after all, it was just a cloak. She undid the clasp and held it out. The servant took it and wrapped it around herself. It was a tad too large, but it covered her from top to bottom and with a cowl no one would guess she was not Lyanna. Their chances at survival were about the same, she reasoned, trying to ignore the panic that has settled low within her stomach.

Tilly sat back down, drawing the hunting knife to her chest. She clutched the handle so hard Lyanna feared the girl might do herself injury. Neither spoke, waiting for the door to open, for the horror to come and for their fate to be sealed. It was only a matter of time.

Cries and shouts reached them from without. Through the lattice, Lyanna could see a flurry of activity. Men were running, lifting weapons and charging their enemy. She caught sight of Elbert crossing swords with a heavy fellow. Ser Arryn’s knees buckled beneath the weight of the other’s hit. Yet he did not fall. Lyanna gave praise to the gods, following which she entreated them to keep the man. If Elbert fell his men would disperse and hers would not be sufficient to keep the danger at bay.

A Rosby soldier fell to the ground, thrusting his sword up in one last, dying blow. He caught the enemy’s middle, slicing through the soft flesh. A howl of pain permeated the premises and the scent of blood washed over them. Gore fell from the gaping wound, both warriors upon the ground, last breaths given to the gods. Another pair was fighting close by, the hammer coming down upon the Arryn guard. He stumbled backwards, his attempt to dodge the blow unsuccessful. He’d been caught in the shoulder and his terrifying yell brought chills to her spine. Lyanna tried to steady herself against the wave of nausea betaking her. She gripped the edge of her seat, nails biting into wood.

Pain flooded her, momentarily impairing her vision. Tilly’s voice flittered somewhere close by, but she could not make out the words. Another scream rent through the thick confusion settled upon her. She breathed in heavily, spots dancing before her eyes. Lyanna could feel her heart galloping, the quick rhythm painful as it pounded against her ribcage. It was almost as if she was being stabbed over and over again. Only there was no knife that she could tug upon and ease her suffering. “Tilly, tell me,” she managed with concentrated effort, “what is happening there?”

“Ser Arryn was injured, m’lady,” her servant answered. “He fell to his knees.” The terror in the companion’s voice was amplified by a strange sense of dread coursing through her. “One of our men jumped between them. He is helping Ser Arryn. He is up. M’lady, the man is back on his feet.”

Dare she hope that Elbert Arryn shared her brother’s propensity for refusing to lose? Lyanna forced her head to rise, just as Tilly began speaking once more. “Nay; this cannot be.”

The door was flung open and a scream tore through the small space confining lady and servant.  

“What have we here?”  

   

 

    

    

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I'm pretty sure everyone is tired of ciphers by now, this time I'll give an easy clue. It only requires a few minutes of your time: [ clue ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BefliMlEzZ8). 
> 
> I'll leave it to your capable minds to come up with the characters to whom this fits.
> 
> This is a bit of a thank you gift for 1000 comments reached and over 200 kudos. It's nice for small fry like me to have such attention. :)


	13. We Are Ghosts

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Wandering the halls again, little lord?” Rhaegar questioned, eyes settling on the boy dressed in sleeping garb yet inexplicably loitering about instead of being in his bedchamber sleeping. He’d not done it for some time and as far as Rhaegar knew Arthur’s sister was supposed to keep an eye on him. “Ser Lewyn, remain here. Ser Whent, come with.”

He picked Jon up and the child hesitantly wrapped his arms around his neck. Proceeding to hide his face away, Lyanna’s son gripped him tightly, the taunt hold enough to tell Rhaegar that there was something bothering him. “Let us take you back to bed, aye?” he spoke softly. He felt Jon’s nod.

Aware as he was of the more than energetic front the child presented for the most part, is listlessness was nothing short of odd. This was the same boy who’d run around the keep with Aegon, to the great despair of the septa placed in charge of them.

Without another word, they made their way down the hallways, through dimly lit corridors. It was a rather strange thing that these children could escape the watchful eyes of their minders with such ease, regularly too, if one was to count all the times they had done so in the recent past. He was beginning to wonder if it wouldn’t be easier to just confine them to their chambers and lock the doors. Alas, one could not coop children up in such a manner, lest they become unmanageable.

Reaching the bedchamber, Rhaegar’s hold on Jon became one-armed, his other hand reaching out to open the door. Naught but darkness greeted him. With slow step, he entered, eyes adjusting to the lack of light within moments. The wide bed awaited, empty, the presence of someone. Furs stretched out, covering its length, inviting the sleeper. He placed the child down and looked upon that little face, slightly pallid, wide eyes scrutinising him back warily.

“Did you have a night terror?” he asked after a heartbeat’s length of silence between them. Jon gave a nod. He seated himself on the edge of the bed, peeling the furs back so the boy might settle himself beneath them. Jon crawled in.

“I want mother,” he said.

A pang of remorse reared its head as Rhaegar considered the words. “I know.” What else was there to say? Alas, Lyanna was nowhere near and he did not know that Jon would accept anything less. Still, he thought to ask. “Shall I call your aunt?”

“Nay. I want mother.” Jon bit into his lower lip. The poor child would have to grow used to not having her around. As far as Rhaegar could tell, Lyanna fully intended to make it seem as if she was truly attached to her spouse, which naturally meant her absence from court. Not to mention that the Lannisters still posed a threat.

“This night terror of yours, what was it about?” At those words, his son grew stiff, fingers clenching in the furs. “You can tell me. Your mother left you in my care, ‘tis naught you should hide. Tell me.”

“There was a garden,” the boy began, voice tremulous, as if he could barely control the words. “In the middle stood a great tree.” Stretching his arms out as far as he could, Jon continued, “this big.” His hands move over an arch to indicate width and height. “But it was bare. Not even a lead. The bark was white.”

“A weirwood,” Rhaegar offered. His son agreed. Weirwood trees did not lose their leaves. Not unless diseased or otherwise brought harm to. “Go on.”

“The face was gone. And the roots had gone black.” It was, in other words, rotting. The child had dreamt about a dead weirwood. “Three birds stood upon a branch, each pecking at the bark. But then two of the birds grew discontent and began battling. Yet it was the third that fell from the branch, struck to the ground.”

A story of rivalry then. The nature of the dream seemed peculiar to Rhaegar’s ears. Rhaenys had had night terrors, but hers involved not being able to find that cat of hers or falling forever or some such instances of horror. What Jon spoke of sounded almost prophetic. “What happened after?”

“The bird fell into a bush. It was not dead.” The bush or the bird? “The wings flapped a few times and there was blood.” Indeed, any bird would have been injured further in the fall, might be even sporting gushing wound. “Drops of blood fell upon a small bud causing it to bloom.”

“What sort of flower was it? Can you describe it?” He leaned in slightly, vaguely aware that he was expecting a tad too much from a boy just past infancy. Yet for the life of him, Rhaegar could n ot bring himself to put an end to the conversation. If he was hearing what he thought he was hearing, Maester Aemon would be interested.       

A frown passed over Jon’s features. His face scrunched up in concentration, nose wrinkling in a gesture he’d seen upon the boy’s mother. “It was this big,” he created a circle between his thumb and pointer, “and had seven petals. White all. And yellow in the middle.”

“It was the only flower in the bush?” Jon shook his head. “So the others hadn’t bloomed?” The easiest way to solve the dilemma was to bring a book of botany and have Jon show him which flower it was. Might be at a later time though. If there was any merit to his suspicions.   

“They were dead.” Wilted trees and bushed; what he described sounded a lot like winter.

“I see. And your dream ended here?” It was still ended upon a positive note. Even a single flower blooming was better than none.

But Jon shook his head. “The sun began to set and the bird in the bush was flapping its wings once more.”He seemed genuinely frightened at the notion. Rhaegar was not quite certain himself what to say.

“Try to fall asleep. I shall remain with you until you do.” Might be he ought to write to Lyanna himself or speak to Benjen, since that one was a well of information when it suited him. He sighed softly and glanced back at Jon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tilly sprinted into the line of trees, the knife having been dropped halfway between them and the carriage. Their pursuer shouted for them to stop, but having passed out of sigh, he had a harder time obligated them to listen. Lyanna’s chest heaved, legs all atremble. The sole of her feet felt as if someone had taken a blade to them, slashing the skin multiple times. The hand gripping hers tightened its hold, but she still stumbled.

“I cannot go on,” she said from her position upon the ground. Tilly had turned around. “I cannot do it.” Seeming to recognise the truth in her voice, the servant hurriedly helped her to her feet.

“See that there?” She pointed towards a mound of rocks, shaped by nature as if to offer shelter. “I will distract them when they reach us. Hide there, m’lady and make your escape after we are gone.” Lyanna did not protest. Depositing her behind the rising ridge, Tilly raised her head slightly over. She sucked in a breath and looked down at Lyanna once more. “I am off.”

Taking the path, the servant girl yelled out as the party of men approached. Lyanna resisted the urge to climb out of her spot and look about. Footfalls could be heard close by. She shut her eyes, moving her hand to her middle. The pain she’d felt before settled low within her, almost as if she was to give birth. But that was simply not possible.

If Tilly escaped, she could possibly reach a village. Might be she could return with aid. The optimism was swiftly washed away once she thought better of it. Even in the best of health and unharmed, without food or water, going through the wooded area was a danger. Especially considering that unlike the villages further south, which were fairly close one to the other, mountains sheltered fewer of them and even those unbelievably far one from the other. Tilly would need time, might be more than Lyanna had, and she would certainly need good fortune. Even in the event that she did find a village, who was to say they would help her or even believe her.

Given that they had been attacked without any sort of fear seemed to indicate that these men knew no one would interfere. Either they controlled the surroundings, or they’d won the people over. Both options spelled equally grim outcomes.

And Lyanna herself had naught to eat or drink. She could hardly walk, let alone chase game. And even if she could, she needed some sort of weapons. Thirst might be slaked by some brook or stream, if she could find it. As for the rest, in her current condition, she might as well lie down and close her eyes and never awake.

It was then that she realised she was breathing loud, fit to wake the dead. Alarmed, she struggles to calm herself. If it was her fate she could not avoid it, Lyanna told herself, and she would die no matter how hard she protested. And if it was not ordained by higher forces that she lose her life, then she’d best prepare for what came after. It was as simple as that. Alas, what her mind recognised, her body fought fiercely against.    

She wished she could see Jon once more, to tell him that she loved him. She wished she could let Benjen know that he ought to tell her father the truth about Jon. She wished, not least but last, that she might receive assurance from Rhaegar that Jon would be well-looked after, that he would benefit from his father’s protection against all whom might see fit to harm him.

The knot in her throat tightened. She did not want to die. She wanted to see the sunrise and return to King’s Landing and tell Elia that she did not care a whit for her threats and to just be with Rhaegar, to hell with the consequences. Many a man kept a mistress; he would not be the only one. She wanted to forget about every little trouble and just be happy with her son and the man she loved. It would please her to be selfish to the extreme and close her ears off to each and every word of censure.

And she wanted, with every tiny sliver of her being, to have someone with her in this moment. She didn’t want to die alone, forgotten among stony hills and dauntingly tall trees. Her body would be lost and never recovered, or might be some unlucky fellow might find her bones sometime after. She would look like her good-mother, a finely dressed bag of bones without even the slightest indication of where she might belong. At the very least Robert’s mother had been safe within the walls of her own keep. Lyanna would not have even that much.

The thought reverberated through her, sucking away at the last drops of hope. She was doomed. Lips trembling, Lyanna hugged herself tightly, resting her back against the dependable stones. The ache had grown stronger and something warm slid down her leg. By the fading light she made out dark colours. Gods, to have gone through all the trouble of making preparations only to bleed to death a stone’s throw away from an ally of her father’s. Bitter laughter burst forth, the deluge unstoppable. She did not even care that someone might hear.

“There,” a voice called out. “That’s where it’s coming from.” Footsteps were getting closer. It might be a knife or sword that did her in after all. The laughter dies down. “Must be hiding behind those rocks. Get her out.”

Get her out, indeed. Lyanna pressed herself tighter against the wall. A growl rumbled through the darkness. It was not loud enough to be aught but a wolf. She stiffened. Caught between two different manners of beasts. It seemed that her good fortune knew no bounds, she was even allowed to choose the manner of her death. A grim smile bloomed upon her face.     

“Found you.” She looked up at those words, only to see a face peering down at her. “Thought you could hide from us?” The mockery slid off like water off the wings of a duck. To hell with him and his amusement. Lyanna made no reply, instead she searched the ground, wrapping her fingers around the first worthy object in her path. The sharp rock flew up, smacking against the man’s forehead. He cried out, a litany of curses her reward. “You little whore.”

He reached out for her, strong hands gripping her shoulders and hauled her up. Her body, heavy as a bag of stones, did not make matters easy for him. Lyanna wad pleased to her his continued cursing. “Do you wish to die, wench?”

The growls were growing louder. Lyanna sniffed lightly. choking on the man’s odour. Gods, why was it that these pillagers never thought to bathe? At least in a stream; the smell was enough to fell any enemy. Her mussing were interrupted by a yell.

“The wolves are coming.” The warning was met with a moment of hesitation. The hold on her shoulder tightened. “Damn it; leave her. You’ll find some other woman.”

Before her captor could make a reply, however, from within the shadows, a sleek, gaunt beast flew out, limbs arching gracefully. A snarl later and her opponent was crying out in pain as savage growls indicated that the wolf was enjoying its meal. Lyanna sighed in relief. She’d not been the target of the animal. Leaning heavily against the stones she drew comfort from the escape. Seated so close to the feeding wolf, she could hear the sounds it make. The prey was dead and all that remained was the bones cracking and flesh ripping. Were she to look, she would see carnage.

A pained moan escaped past her lips, spilling onto the folds of her skirts along with what seemed to be copious amounts of blood. She’d not even thought to look. Gingerly, she began lifting the heavy cloth, aware that she might as well have placed herself before the wolf, inviting it to devour her.

Before her very eyes another wolf came out of the darkness, this one headed straight for her. She gulped, fear freezing every muscle in her body. The beast snapped its jaws, a low growl slithering across the ground to wrap around her. Her heart faltered.

One hair’s breadth away from reached her toes, the beast was stopped by one of its brethren. The same wolf that had saved her snarled from above, looking down at the pair of them with haughty eyes. That seemed to be enough to stop his companion’s advance. A whine followed. Lyanna continued to eye the first of the wolves as it jumped down from the highs and landed easily upon the ground. It sniffed at the pool of blood, nose moving closer and closer to her leg. For the life of her, she had no idea how she should react.

Thankfully the contraction of the muscles in her lower half did not give her time to think either, or she might have kicked her leg at the poor creature and then she’d be a tasty meal herself. Instead, she continued to lift her skirts, conscious that her smallclothes were in the way.

With great effort, she divested herself of the thick kirtle, lying it down so she might use it remaining in her shift. Sticky blood clung to the inside of her things as she dragged the tainted material of her small clothes away. The wolves looked upon her, neither moving an inch. Could they recognise the scene unfolding before them? Did they understand that she was giving life?

Blood oozed onto the ground in thick chunks, almost as if it had dried itself from all the waiting. A wave of pain prompted her to push, a small voice in the back of her head offering encouragement. So Lyanna wasted no time in doing so. Pressure pressed with tremendous power against the base of her spine, gore flowing without. She bit the inside of her cheek, the taste of blood in her mouth as well. But why bother to swallow the pain. She could scream however loud she pleased. There was no one to hear her.

When next came the ache, her lips parted to allow a wail past. To her consternation, her pain was covered by twin howls. Her legs were shaking so bad she feared they would give way before the babe was out. Rising on her elbows from the position she’d initially lowered herself into, Lyanna gentle reached for the place of torment. Something slick and wet pressed against her fingers, the softness giving her pause. She pushed again, feeling it move. Again and yet again. And again afterwards until, winded and unable to do more than fall onto her back, Lyanna felt an easy slide. Blackness befell her, stealing every ounce of light.

She wanted to sit and look down, to see what it was that she’d brought forth, but all that she could feel was something warm sliding against her arm, the scent of snow strong. Wetness lashed against her cheek and a thin wail pierced the silence. Her babe lived. Lyanna could scarcely believe it. Her struggle to open her eyes and take in the sight was met with a resounding failure. She felt numb and sleepy, as if she could slumber for a decade or two and naught would restore her.

Was that what dying in childbed felt like? She thought she might die when she had Jon, but that had felt like a battle. Here she was no warrior. A stream of regret sprang from within her, filling the well of her chest.          

The last of her strength was given to asking the gods that they take pity on the poor babe and not let the wolves eat it. For any mistake she might have made, her child did not have to suffer.

A wail intermingling with a growl was the last thing Lyanna made out before there was only darkness.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Look at the two of you, seething like a pair of scorned lover,” the Hand of the King japed, eying his younger sons. “You’d think it was the end of existence with the way you carried on.” It had certainly been an eventful day. “Is there a reason for which you would subject me to such shame or were you simply feeling bored?”

Ned protested soundly, “The man acts as if he mourns the passing of someone dear to him. Did he show as much as a frown when my sister left? My recollection denies it. And the presence of some individuals calls his affection into question as well.”

“Because, of course, the two of you have mastered the art of mind reading and can say with certainty there was no sadness whatsoever on his part at my daughter’s leaving. If you would be so good as to tell me when the following lords intend to pay their levies, I should be most grateful.” He pushed a scroll towards them with none too much gentleness. “While you’re at it, see if you can conjure Tywin Lannister’s intentions upon his arrival and tell me if he plans aught nefarious, so I may know to prepare myself.”

“We are talking about your daughter here,” Benjen finally piped in. “Does it not matter to you at all? Does it not concern you?”

Rickard chuckled. “What concerns me is my sons playing the buffoons quite happily before so many eyes all because of some notions of their that their sister is suffering a slight. Mind, if you at least had solid proof, I would be willing to entertain the notion. As is, I will have the two of you locked away if you don’t learn how to behave.”

“If Lyanna falls from grace, you too will suffer,” Benjen pointed out. “This ought to put you on edge at the very least. A few moon turns can change a lot. Lyanna is not here to defend herself and you seem unwilling to do it. Someone has to.”

 “Were I named in my position as a result of Lyanna’s hard work, I might worry.” He grinned, the sort of mien one adopted in the face of child-like mischief. “I don’t suppose either of you understand these matters very well. Sympathy may well depend on acquaintance and the mistake is easy to make.”

“Then why do you think he named you of all people Hand of the King? With his good-brother present no less.” Ned seemed scandalised by their father’s attitude, so much so that his face had gone red. Benjen inclined to agree. The man might consider himself above the King’s whims, but one could never know.

“To put it plainly, because at the moment the realm has need of balance and support, if necessary of the military kind. But for now, someone to oppose Tywin Lannister. So you see, your sister, appealing as she might be to the King, has little enough part in this. Since the North is unlikely to lose its breadth and men, I cannot see to it changing anytime soon.”

“If what you say is true, then his bargain is a losing one. ‘Tis House Tyrell he should have looked after,” Benjen found himself opining.

“Fortunately for us, there is more than one important position at court and the King well knows that. House Tyrell shall have its satisfactions as well, do no fret.” His eyes narrowed. “The two of you, though, will have to watch your step. ‘Tis dangerous to be too nosey.”

“If you truly trust the King then I shan’t dissuade you, lord father, but Ned and I are only looking out for Lyanna and Jon.” As any brother world, the words hung between them. As any father should, the accusation pierced the ensuing silence. But their father’s mien remained coolly disconnected even at that show of brotherly affection.

“I trust what I see before my eyes. When I can no longer do so, you shall be the first to know. Until that time comes, think twice of the words that leaves your mouths. As for Lyanna, she is more than capable of looking out for herself and I suspect fully prepared to battle any opponent should there be need.” That Benjen could not deny.

His sister would most likely, upon her return, make short work of any and every unfortunate interloper. But it was her having a need to do so that bothered Benjen the most. “As you say, lord father,” Ned spoke, standing to his feet. “If you will excuse me, I am waited upon.”

Rickard nodded his agreement, setting Ned on his course. Benjen stood as well. He had no one waiting. Nonetheless, they’d tarried long enough in father’s solar. He didn’t expect the man might thank him for staying longer.

Once without, a sense of loss gripped him. Benjen allowed himself a moment to ponder over his father’s plans, trying to work out a hidden meaning in his words. But he could find nothing. Was he truly so concerned with the greatness of their house? After all they have been through? What frustrated him was that he continued to put Lyanna last in his thoughts. Aye, she could well take care of herself, but the point was she did not have to. She had them, her family.

Somewhere down the hallway a shadow trembled. Benjen started at the sudden movement. He took a step forth and waited for any sound to come. He was not disappointed. Within moments small noises filled his ears. It sounded as if someone were weeping.

Realisation dawned upon him. At least there was one Targaryen as unhappy as Benjen was that no one seemed to think of Jon and Lyanna. Of course, the little girl was more concerned with Jon, but Benjen was willing to take what he could get.

A head peeked from behind a corner, red-rimmed eyes looking him up and down. Benjen crossed his arms over his chest. “I too have known sorrow, Your Grace,” he addressed the child, “mayhap you would come and take comfort.”   

 

 

 

 

 

  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) 5-1 20-3 10-25 26-16-21-25 1-8 19-4-20-8-20-3 5-1 20-3 10-25 26-16-21-25 1-8-25 16-10-1-3-16 8 1-8-25 3-7-9-24-4-25 1-8-25 19-16-23-23-16 8 14 20-10 9-25-14-7-4 24-16-20-8 20-3 6-20-5-1-20 7 5-1-20 2-7-21-25 10-25 26-16-21-25 20-3 3-1-20 7 14 10-7-3 3-1-20 7-3 3-1-20 7-3 3-7-8 
> 
> 2) 17-20 4-25-8 24-20-3-16-21-20 2-17-20 9-25-4-20 4-25-8 16-8 19-4-7-8-2 7-19 17-20-4 3-25-13 17-20-4 24-20-16-8-18 13-17-16-6-6-20-21 25-23-4-7-3-3 2-17-20 20-14-20-3 4-16-18-17-2 16-8 2-17-20 20-14-20-3 17-20 13-25-3 23-4-14-16-8-18 17-20 19-20-10-2 23-17-7-11-16-8-18 17-16-3 2-20-25-4-3 13-20-4-20 3-2-4-20-25-9-16-8-18 7-8-20 7-19 2-17-20 9-20-8 18-25-26-20 17-16-9 25 23-1-2 13-16-2-17 2-17-20 13-17-16-6 25-23-4-7-3-3 2-17-20 19-25-23-20 17-20 21-16-21 8-7-2 19-20-20-10 16-2 13-4-16-8-18-16-8-18 17-16-3 17-25-8-21-3 25-8-21 3-23-4-20-25-9-16-8-18 17-20 4-1-3-17-20-21 1-6 2-7 2-17-20 18-4-20-14 17-20-25-21-20-21 7-10-21 9-25-8 13-16-2-17 2-17-20 18-4-20-14 24-20-25-4-21 13-17-7 13-25-3 3-17-25-11-16-8-18 17-16-3 17-20-25-21 16-8 21-16-3-25-6-6-4-7-26-25-10 7-8-20 13-7-9-25-8 3-20-16-12-20-21 17-16-9 24-14 2-17-20 17-25-8-21 25-8-21 13-7-1-10-21 17-25-26-20 2-25-11-20-8 17-16-9 25-13-25-14 24-1-2 17-20 2-7-4-20 17-16-9-3-20-10-19 19-4-7-9 17-20-4 25-8-21 4-25-8 24-25-23-11 2-7 2-17-20 9-25-4-20 3-17-20 13-25-3 25-10-9-7-3-2 25-2 2-17-20 10-25-3-2 18-25-3-6 24-1-2 24-20-18-25-8 11-16-23-11-16-8-18 7-8-23-20 9-7-4-20 
> 
> To find the key and interpret Jon's dream: [ link 1](http://www.auntyflo.com/flower-dictionary/anemone)
> 
> [ link 2 ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anemone_nemorosa)


	14. One Last Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested listening: [Sigur Rós' Varúð](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gf1h2PMPCAo). Possibly one of their best. Enjoy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The darkness dissolved into various shades of dark blues and purples to lighter ice-like colours as she opened her eyes. Lyanna gave a moan of protest, her arm sliding up to offer covering. She was not to enjoy the newfound comfort, however, as something prodded into her side. With a huff, she opened her eyes, turning the full power of her scrutiny to the side. But she found naught there. Instead, the chill of almost-dawn crept upon her, sliding along uncovered skin.

Rising to a sitting position, she divested herself of the cumbersome coverlet which had entangled around her legs, keeping her firmly bound and climbed at long last to her feet. A small chest was resting in one of the corners, near the entrance. Lyanna recalled, hazily, having packed a few beeswax candles as well. Thus she forced the lid open and started rummaging through the piles of cloth. Her prize lay at the bottom of the coffer, gingerly wrapped in sturdy cloth. She picked out one of the candles and carefully made her way without.

A few men stood around the fire, speaking in hushed tones. The first to see her, gave a half-bow, still seated comfortably. The others followed. Lyanna greeted the, in return and approached the climbing flames with her candle held forth. They allowed her to lit it without comment.

“Brandon is still sleeping?” she questioned lightly, reclaiming her candle after it was lit. It was crucial that her oaf of a sibling not be awake.

“Aye. Like a stone,” chuckled the eldest of the group. “You needn’t take fright, m’lady, we know full well not to let him upon you in such delicate moments.”

Satisfied with that response, Lyanna gave a swift nod and began to walk towards the surrounding forest. She entered the first thicket and was out of sight. The candle did not give much light, certainly less than she would have liked, but she could already hear sounds coming from all around. Suspecting that she’d walked in the right direction, Lyanna sat down upon the protruding roots of a tree and waited impatiently for their followers to show themselves.

With a sudden jerk, she was pressed against someone, a palm covering her mouth. “Do you not think it a tremendously dangerous thing to be wandering about the woods at night?” She relaxed and gave a nod. The hand retreated. “Truly, you are a most interesting creature.”

“Is that why you followed me? I should think interesting specimens require a lot of observation.” She did not turn to face him, though she knew very well that with him at such a distance, she could do so to her heart’s content.

“A lifetime wouldn’t be enough.” The man sat down next to her. Lyanna offered a small smile, fiddling with the candle. “I just had to,” he replied to the unasked question, gazing into her eyes. Lyanna imagined a mouse felt rather like that before a serpent. She waited for further word. “I thought that if I saw you,” he trailed off.

“That it might make understanding easier,” she offered. She had thought about it as well. Seeing him one more time before she embraced her duty. It was comforting in a sense. “Did it?” With him sitting by her side, she felt at peace; but at the same time she was aware it was a transitory thing. Once the sun was upon the sky, he would go back and she forth and they would live the rest of their lives as if the other never even existed. It was a plausible outcome. He never answered though.

“Your Grace, if ‘tis not too impertinent of me, I should like to now; why was ait that of all the maidens in the land you would gift the crown to me?” And not to his lady wife. But Lyanna did not say that. The Princess had no place between them. She belonged to reality, a world in which Lyanna and her Prince were as far from one another as Winterfell was from Dragonstone.

“It concerns you. I do not mind your asking.” He was sitting so close, yet not even an inch of him touched her. Was he shy? Was he afraid? “Would you believe me if I said I love you? I love you.”       

He did not love her. Lyanna’s smile brightened. “You love me?” The sense of wonder in her voice was half elation, half disbelief. He might not love her, but he certainly felt strongly about her. Strong enough to chase after her. She leaned in and pressed her lips to his cheek. It was daring enough without hugging herself to him as she desired. “I will not forget your words.” A promise made more to herself than to him, Lyanna was surprised to feel an arm wrapping around her middle.

“And I will never forget you.” She leaned against him, her slightly twisted frame against his firm front, and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth. When was the last time she’d felt aught like it? And with whom? A thought crossed her mind at that. A though so insane she daren’t present it. The words were stuck in her throat like shard of glass, hurting her with the pressure of their urgency. Fingers splayed across her hip, Rhaegar rested his chin atop her head. They shared the cool silence of a world before sunrise.

She would be missed if she did not return soon. It would be even worse if Brandon woke and she was not there. “I want to see you again, Rhaegar.” Aware of the invitation she was making, Lyanna pressed firmer into him. “Just one more time.”

His tense frame disentangled from hers. He held her at a distance, searching her face for she knew not what. “You do? Truly?”

“Truly? We shall be stopping at an inn soon. I could sneak out.” She’d done enough of it at home at any rate. An inn could not be that different.   

“Only if you want to, Lyanna. I will wait.” And he stood to his feet. Without a word, he walked away, seeming to disappear deeper into the woods.

Lyanna stood up as well, smoothing the folds of her dress into an obedient fall of sturdy cloth. She had more than she hoped she would when she took her chance. A few moments passed before she too began making her way back to the encampment, the candle flickering softly. The scent of wax wafted softly towards her nostrils. Lyanna could already make out the long shadows of the tents. The fire was still burning. She blew the candle out and tiptoed towards her own tent, her presence not seeming to attract the attention of any of the men.

Within the safety of her tent, she opened the coffer once more and placed the candle with the others, her fingers moving to a leather-bound volume. She stroked the worn spine, the pad of her finger passing over the slightly risen bits of string. She opened it, careful of the treasure within and turned the pages one by one until she reached the middle of the book.

A sweet scent emanated from the pressed flower resting against the pages. Somehow, in the engulfing black, the perfume was even stronger. Lyanna could hardly make out the colours with her eyes, but in her mind, the vibrant blue of the petals’ tip slowly faded into icy tones of pressed and dusty blooms; the sole survivor of a scuffle with the heel of her brother’s boot. Lyanna had been filled with remorse at the sight of the lone bloom and unable to leave it lying there she had taken it with her, hidden from sight, lest she incur her brother’s wrath. And there it was, moon turns past, an immortal symbol trapped between ink-stained pages.     

Placing the flower back between the pages, Lyanna closed the volume and hid it beneath her dresses, shutting the lid down in both the object and the thoughts. She retreated to her cot and wrapped the blanket around herself, warding off the chill. Before long she was succumbing to the embrace of sleep, eyes closing beneath its spell. And what remained of the encounter was a sense of anticipation.

When she came to, the first thing she noticed was that Benjen was kneeling at her side. “Sleepyhead,” he chided with a grin, ”Brandon says we’ll leave without you if you keep being lazy.”

Would that he did. Lyanna shook the sleep away and rose from the cot. “I was having a wonderful dream, is all.” The excuse was met with disbelief by her younger sibling, but Benjen would likely not speak of it until they were at the inn. And then she would have to tell him.

“Those are for the long nights. ‘Tis summer now, sister mine.” He left her to prepare herself, no doubt going to make certain her horse was in fit shape. Lyanna went about her own business.

 

The journey resumed at the same languid pace of before. How strange, somehow her own recollections had shown fast galloping across green pastures. But then, she supposed it mattered little how fast the horses galloped as long as they reached the village and its inn. The sun, a quarter to its zenith, shone upon their party. Lyanna looked towards Benjen who was glaring at some point ahead of them.

“What is it? Your expression is rather frightening,” she noted. “Did the stew not sit well with you?” Her jape was met with a frown which quickly melted into a smile. It was not at all like Benjen. She frowned in turn.

“Look there.” He pointed to the horizon. Or rather to where the horizon was supposed to have been. Instead, all that remained of the light-bathed line was a bruised ghost shimmering ethereally. Lyanna gasped and glanced back towards her brother, but he too had changed. “There rest awaits us,” he told her between split blue lips, decomposing flesh around them. “You won’t ever have to wake, feel pain, know sorrows. There is only peace. Do you not want that? We would never be apart.”

It was all a night terror, Lyanna told herself, looking over her shoulder. The dark cloud of blackness which had swallowed the horizon and the sun had left untouched the green pastures behind them. There the light still shone and leaves rustled in the breeze. Benjen’s fingers clasped her wrist, his touch cold and damp. “There is nothing for you there. Only struggle. Stay with us.”

Past his shoulder, she caught sight of the other men, all shambling corpses, grinning at her through rotting skin with cracked teeth, and time-yellowed bones told a story she did not wish to hear. “We all end up here, sister. On this day or on the morrow, ‘tis the same.”

He was right. The though wrapped itself around her as her head bent in an obedient nod. What need did she have of a life in which naught good came her way? Rising her head, Lyanna took a good look at those surrounding her. Their numbers had grown exponentially. Men and women and children with vacant eyes and open wounds circled around her in a cheery reel, grinning faces vibrant still even in their state.

“You would give up so easily?” a familiar voice reached her, snapping Lyanna out of her trance. On the other side of the divide, Rhaegar stood, a solitary figure shining the in light of day. “Are you that tired?” She nodded. “And you are willing to give up along with sorrows and struggles, all joys as well. There is peace where you are headed, but ‘tis the peace of nothingness. Neither joy nor laughter shall you fin there, not even a tiny bit of love. You are giving up us and them as well,” he pointed towards a pair of children who seemed to have risen out of the ground. They chased one another around, seemingly unaware of the eyes upon them. “Is that what you want?”     

 

 

 

 

 

 


	15. Over The River's Edge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Read end-note about the next update.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tilly looked from one man to the other, shoulders sagging beneath the weight of her worries. The injured Arryn heir gazed back at her, something in his eyes stirring her fear even further. “As I said, ser, m’lady gave me the cloak and bade me to run. I did as I was ordered to.” They had thought her to b e her mistress, but Tilly had no fault. “I left her by the great rock.”

“If we make for this rock, shall we find her there, do you think?” Elbert Arryn questioned, holding the Lady Lyanna’s cloak.

The man seated next to him on the boulder nodded. “If she’s in that way, I much doubt she would have gone far even if she did move. Yet chased after those barbarians, I confess I cannot with an easy mind vouch for her safety.” He was some merchant who had come to the knight’s aid. His men had chased off the attackers after a bloody struggle. The mountain yielded hardy creatures.

“It’ll be our heads if she’s harmed,” the knight whispered as if for himself. Tilly shivered at the promise of pain she heard in those words and held back the desire to run. Her mistress could have demanded that she stay with her, but she hadn’t. Tilly was choosing to stay.

“Then we had best make sure she is unharmed,” the merchant said, standing to his feet. “Best you allow my men and I to search. The servant can come with. Her mistress is bound to want some companionship upon our return.”

“Take Gyor as well,” Elbert Arryn insisted. A wiser man than Tilly would have believed. Gyor was the second in command and he had suffered only minor injury in the scuffle. He’d find it easier to move than the other with the near shredded leg.

The merchant nodded. Gyor stepped forth from within the group, his brethren parting to let him pass. Tall and broad-shouldered with a missing eye which he did not cover, Gyor cut a frightening figure. Yet he was an able fighter and loyal as far as Tilly could tell. He looked her up and down, lower lip curling visibly. Not a word came forth.

The merchant, however, was disposed to speak. “Your mistress, you’ve said she was in pain?” He was mounting his horse as he questioned her. “How far along was she?”

“Far along enough to show,” she shrugged, clasping his outstretched hand. Seated behind him, Tilly wrapped her arms around his torso, shifting uncomfortably. The saddle was a tad narrow. “Ever since her husband went the way of the Stranger she’s been in pain.”

“Curious.” The pronouncement hung between them as the horse nickered softly, possibly in protest to Tilly kicking its side by mistake. “And your mistress is called Lyanna?”

“Aye, that’d be m’lady’s name.” That he’d heard from Ser Arryn. “She replies to no other.”

“If the need to call her by name arises, I should like to know the one she responds to is all,” the man hurried to assure here, his horse breaking out into gallop. Gyor followed, his own steed standing shoulder to shoulder, or very near that, to the merchant’s.

The night was slowly giving way, allowing the first faint light to touch the top of the trees. Aflame with the sun’s caresses, colours drifted over the heavens, spilling forth like blood from a wound until naught remained of the ink canvas of hours past. Stars faded away as well, their presence no longer needed. A cool breeze brushed past, playing gaily among the leaves that clung to gnarled branches. But Tilly could enjoy none of the beauty. Her heart heavy, she looked up and down for her mistress, despite knowing it was by the rock that she’d left her.

The place they were looking for the party reached after a ride that had felt interminable. Without waiting for aid, Tilly jumped down from the beast’s back, mindless of the danger. She leaped towards the sanctuary she’d found and clambered atop the structure, looking down expectantly.

 A sharp cry mingled with low growls. Tilly fell back. “Wolves, wolves,” she cried out. “They have my mistress.”

Someone helped her to her feet and sure enough, a wolf jumped out at them, but instead of charging at the party, it let out a low sound and ran towards a cluster of trees. Stunned, Tilly could only stare as another followed the way of the first. The men had drawn out their swords, but none stepped forth, not even Gyor.

As the third animal launched forth from behind the rock, a thin cry filled her ears. Her heart, heavy before, fell into her stomach. Such a weep could only mean one thing. A pair ore of wolves scurried away, tailed by another of their brethren. Unable to wait a moment longer, Tilly jumped forth yet again. This time she was joined by Gyor and the merchant.

One single wolf had remained in Lady Lyanna’s presence and it was coiled around an angrily crying creature. Red-skinned and tinier than even the beast’s head, the babe wept in a strange manner, face scrunching up. Tilly’s gaze shifted from the wonder to her mistress. She gasped.

The wolf folded around the babe rose gingerly. A growl left its mouth. It then retreated back a few steps. Tilly breathed in and the animal rose on its hind legs. Her lips clamped together in a thin colourless line. The wolf returned all limbs to the ground, arched once then sprang into action, jumping over the trio and disappearing no doubt like the rest of the pack.

“By the gods, what was that?” the merchant asked in a whisper. He was looking at Lady Lyanna with wonder and fear.

“M’lady comes from the North,” Tilly said, as if finding wolves protecting a fainted woman and her child was perfectly normal. The shock left her silly.

The three of the jumped over the boulder. Gyor surveyed their surroundings as the merchant shook her lady’s shoulder gently. Tilly picked the babe up. Gods, it was smaller than she’d imagined. And it was a girl. No bigger than a pincushion. And to think her mistress had given birth all on her own, without the familiarity of the help her station afforded her.

“No use trying to wake ‘er,” Gyor cut in, stopping the merchant’s attempts. “Look at the ground.”

Even by the faint light, the reddish hue of both kirtle and earth spoke volumes. The merchant nodded and began unpinning his cloak. The material was draped over her lady’s prone form, its dark colour contrasting with the pale skin, almost sallow. The merchant hoisted her up, wrapping the rest of the cloak around her to cocoon Lady Lyanna as best as circumstances allowed.

One of his men was looking down at them, holding his arms outstretched.  The lifeless woman was given to him. Tilly followed the same path, hoisted by the merchant into the awaiting arms of a man. She, however, carried the babe in the cradle of her arms as the tiny lump of flesh continued to whine and weep. The gods only knew when those wolves had arrived. The gods only knew for how long the tiny thing had been in the cold night air.

A second cloak was bandied about, reaching her within moments. Tilly wrapped the child up and cooed softly. “There, there. Be a good little lady and weep no more.” Likely she’d missed a good feeding. But there was naught to do. Tilly had no milk and her lady was not even awake.

The merchant came towards her with one of his men. “There is a village nearby.” He dug in a small purse that hanged from his belt. A silver coin was produced. “Slim here knows a woman who has an infant of her own. Pay her this for a feeding and then come with the babe to my home. Tell her Alyn the brewer’s son sent you.”

She nodded, taking the silver. Even one-armed, she held the babe comfortably. “Aye. My gratitude.”

Slim was cloakless. She figured he was the one who’d given up his source of warmth. The man helped her upon a horse and together they rode to the nearest village. He moved about the place with a familiarity that could only mean he’s been born and raised in its bosom. The girl fussed in her arms, but she’d grown quiet. Might be she was sleepy.

A rather worn sept made of coarse wood dominated the centre of the village. Slim led her around the structure, heading for a clean looking home of a decent size. Without word he banged his fists upon the door. From within a curse could be heard, followed by a woman’s voice.

The door gave a moan of protest as it turned upon its hinges. “What in the Father’s name?” a man growled at them. Short and stout, he gazed with contempt at the two. “Slim. Is that you, boy?”

“Aye,” Slim answered. “I’ve come here with a task from Alyn.” He looked at Tilly over his shoulder and gave a sharp nod. Tilly understood that he wanted the coin. She quickly handed it over. “We’ve a young one desperate for a feeding. You’ve a young one as well.” And a wife with milk to give. Then unspoken words were met with glowing eyes upon the silver.

A woman appeared behind the man, holding a candlestick. “Is that a babe I hear.” She was looking at Tilly and her bundle. “Don’t you just stand there then. Poliver, move out of the way.” The man did as she said.

Entering, Tilly took a better look at the woman. Not unlike her man, she was short but twice as wide. Her homely face was decorated with a welcoming smile. A fair amount of freckles dusted the bridge of her nose and from beneath the cloth covering her head a single tendril of wheat-coloured hair poke its way out.

Drawing closer to Tilly she tsked softly. “What a small thing.” Her assessing gaze returned to Tilly’s face. “Not yours, is she?”

“She is m’lady’s,” Tilly whispered. “She is niece of Lord Rosby.”

“Noble get?” A flush coloured the woman’s cheeks. “Come then. No time to waste.”

Taken to a separate chamber, Tilly was given a rough chair as the woman took the chid away. She held the babe with one arm, her other hand yanking down at her sleepwear to reveal her bosom. The famished babe latched onto a thick, round nipple as soon as she was close enough.

“Weak suckling. A newborn?” Tilly nodded. “She came early then. The lady’s not well, if you’ve brought the mite all the way ‘ere. ”

“We were attacked on the road,” she offered at the scrutinising look. “I was separated from m’lady and she was forced to endure the birthing alone. We found them later.” The wolves remained unmentioned.

“Poor woman. She must have been frightened. By the by, I am called Posy, if your mistress should ever have need of my service again. She continued to feed the child until she’d had her fill. “This won’t do,” Posy spoke after a few moment. “The cloak with scratch such young skin.”

Suspicion welled up within Tilly, but she did not speak. A silver could buy new cloth after all. Posy handed her the babe and began rummaging through a coffer. She pulled out what looked to be a woollen shirt. “Give her this.”

The girl gurgled softly as they divested her of the cloak and dressed her . The arms of the shirt were crossed over in soft binding. The babe yawned. “See. Now that she’d fed she wants to sleep. Best take her to her mother. If aught should happen she’ll want to se the mite again.”

“Naught should happen,” Tilly assured Posy. “Gratitude for your aid. I shall speak kindly to my mistress of you.”

“You do that.” Posy offered another smile.

Their business concluded, she and Slim had naught to do, but follow the merchant’s instructions. They rode over to another village, further away from the road. Slim led the horse to a sprawling structure that was yet being worked upon. In the middle, however, was an area which appeared inhabited.

As soon as they entered, she was jumped upon by Ser Elbert Arryn. “Is that the child?” he questioned. looking down at the bundle. “Is it hale? Has it eaten?”

“She is well, ser,” Tilly stammered out, “and I’ve had her fed. M’lady was in a worse way than the girl.”

“A girl,” he murmured. “I have written to Lord Arryn. He shall come after us, no doubt, but until then mind the babe.”

“But m’lady,” Tilly protested. “I need to make sure she is well.”

“Now, now,” the merchant cut in. “Your mistress has been given a chamber above-stairs where she is seen to by mine own servants. “’Tis best you go there as well, to mind the child, while you see to your mistress if you so will.”

Once in possession of the directions, Tilly was out of sight, climbing up the stairs with as gentle a step as she could. The child slept in her arms, seeming not to mind the light jostling. The chamber the merchant had indicated was indeed where she found her mistress, placed in a large tub. A woman held her up as another poured water within. “Easy now,” a crone snapped.     

Out of the three, only the old woman looked her way. “Ye’ must be the servant wench. I see you’ve found aught to warm the babe with.” Tilly nodded. “Put the babe on the bed then and come help us. She’ll sleep like a rock if she’s warm and fed.”

Doing as she was told, Tilly discovered that the bed was fairly soft with clean sheets and sweet-smelling coverlets. Put at ease, she left the child to her sleep and tiptoed to where the other two women were. The crone set her task, “Take that bucket from there and begin pouring warm water in. A bit at a time.”

Warm wood beneath her palms attested to the fact that water had been boiled. She poured a little at a time as she had been instructed. Steam rose from the slowly filling bath until the whole room was pleasantly warm, a light fog forming. The woman holding Lyanna up continued to do so as she and the other began washing her with soft cloth.

The crone continued to giver orders, her sharp tongue not allowing for a moment of rest. All the better, for by the end of it, there was not a speck of dried blood more, nor dust and her mistress was clean and rosier-looking, her colour almost back.

She was heaved out of the tub and dried with clean sheets before a too-large gown was produced for her. Tilly braided her damp hair, allowing it to fall over the edge of the bed as she was covered with the blankets and furs provided. A fire had been burning all that time in the hearth.

“There is a cot beneath the bed,” the old woman told her. “If yer’ mistress should wake, have her feed the babe when it weeps. If not, call one of us and we’ll see what is to be done.”

“Do you believe she will wake soon?” Tilly dared, looking at her lady over the shoulder. “She looked very bad when we found her.”

“She was in a bad way. Half dead, that one. But she should wake after a good rest.” And what better rest than a soft bed, warm sheets and her babe close by. Tilly gave a nod, gratitude welling within her. Lord Arryn would arrive soon with a maester no doubt and all would be well.

Tilly closed the door softly and knelt by the bed, dragging out the cot from beneath. She straightened the sheets upon it and lied down. It was comfortable enough, with the warmth around them and the smell of soap still floating through the premises. Closing her eyes, Tilly drifted off, sweet slumber close at hand.

She slept well into the morning until a wail woke her. Coming to with a start, Tilly rubbed the sleep from her eyes and sat up, looking over the edge of the bed. Her arms freed, the babe was flailing her limbs, making sift sounds. Tilly stood to her feet, doubling over to look into the child’s face. Her eyes had opened.

“Merciful mother.” Murky unfocused orbs moved lethargically. The most striking aspect was the colouring. Tilly had never seen aught of its kind before. One of her eyes had a flat, almost greyish colour to it, the other bore a more vivid, very near lavender in shade.

She picked the child up and rocked her gently. While the babe was not outright crying, she was whimpering. But her lady still slept and she did not have the heart to wake her. Thus Tilly made her way to the door and opened it. On the other side stood a young girl, holding a tray. Behind her was Posy, her arms folded over her chest.

Sighing in relief, Tilly passed the child over and stood out of the way for the two to enter. Posy sat down upon Tilly’s cot and fed the child while the servant girl examined the sleeping woman. She looked up after a few moments. “Lord Arryn has arrived and wonders if the maester might come in and have a look at the lady.”

“Aye. Let the maester come.”  She sat down next to Posy, waiting for the man to arrive.

To her great joy, it did not take long. The maester, a man past his prime entered the bedchamber with a fearful step. He glanced at her and Posy, then settled his gaze upon the prone figure on the bed. Tilly shook her head and held back a sound of annoyance. Her mistress was hardly going to bite.

“Merciful Mother,” the maester exclaimed, prompting Tilly to turn her head around once more.

“What do you think you are doing?” she cried out, moving to slap the man’s hand away. But the maester gave her a quelling look and a hard shove.

“Keep quiet,” he growled. “If I’d been called any later she might have embraced the Stranger.” He continued on with his prodding. “Bring a basin of hot water, clean sheets and find the midwife.” When Tilly failed to react, he snapped with even more brutality. “Now you fucking fool.”  

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clue: 0914 200805 1201140419 2008051805 0919 01 11050516 0914 200805 11050516 2008051805 0919 01 070118040514 0914 200805 070118040514 2008051805 0919 01 19050504 06181513 200805 19050504 202315 191618090719 011805 191618152120091407 151405 0919 02122105 200805 1520080518 0119080514 14050118 200805 19161815212019 2008051805 0919 01 12011105 011404 1514 092019 19211806010305 0401140305 200805 120501220519 02051405012008 200805 120501220519 01 12151511091407 0712011919 1805061205032019 01 06091805 051407211206091407 011212 
> 
> Now, before I go drink industrial-sized quantities of bleach and possibly hand myself from the ceiling, I have a small announcement to make. Yes, yes, it's that time again, when I am hit by writer's block and quite helpless against it.
> 
> Fact is, I have much of the story mapped out and should concentrate on the more minute details. Which I find impossible at the moment, therefore I will be taking a break from ASOIAF and its headache-inducing creative process and will be writing for another fandom. 
> 
> So I am guessing that it will be anywhere from a week to two until the next update. Hopefully there will still be one or two of you around by then.
> 
> That being said, much love and all the best.


	16. From Mighty High To Fall

 

 

 

 

 

 

Beneath the shade of the tree only she had remained, clutching a hand to her chest in mild confusion. The walk had not exhausted her, but dull ache swirled within her, stabbing the flesh from inside with vicious precision.  It was almost as if she’d swallowed dozens of hot coals. Still, her mind was not so taken that her suspicions would die out. It remained that only her conviction stopped her from asking, as she wished to, and might be her fear of the truth.

Rhaegar was looking upon the path leading within the woods, the perfect mask of tranquillity still in place. She made up her mind, standing to her trembling feet in one flowing motion. He turned towards her. But Lyanna barely gave him to speak before she sprinted towards him, locking the man in an iron embrace as her lips ascended to his. Dust settled upon her tongue.

Drawing back, she looked into the man’s eyes for a split-second before she pushed away from him. “Who are you?” The words sunk like weights between them in the ocean of discontent. Yet since she had convinced herself, Lyanna could not let go of the matter. “Tell me who you are, for you are not my Rhaegar.”

“Does it matter who I am?” His voice had changed. Lyanna nodded her head. “Think this over carefully, you may not like the answers I have.” Still she nodded, thus he forced her hand. “How did you know?” The arms which had worked to support her drew away as though the weight of her had become too much.

Even if she were the sort to panic at such actions, she could not stop. If only because he was not her Rhaegar as he himself confirmed. “The manner of your kiss. Or rather the lack of it. Take this not as insult but you taste of clay.” And he’d been so cold to the touch than even she had to beat a hasty retreat lest frost settle within her. “When you showed me my son, ‘twas with another child. A girl. But how would you know ‘tis a girl when I myself do not know the fate of my babe.” Aside from a flicker of hope, the stranger had raised her expectations quite beyond what she might have liked.

The man before her remained silent, blankexpression in itself telling. She wondered if she would have figured out he was not Rhaegar in the end without sealing their lips. Outwardly, there was not even as much as a sliver of inaccuracy in the disguise. And the voice had been a perfect match as well. ‘Twas all in a touch then. Lyanna wanted to believe she might have in the end stumbled upon the truth had she never tested him, but she could not convince herself of it. “Well, shall you tell me or do I need to guess at it myself?” The implied demand elicited a strange little smile from her companion.

“Might be ‘tis not such a bad notion, my lady. Take a guess, then, and let us see how much you have been paying mind to the world around you.” He sat down and invited her to join him in the sunlight as well.

They were the only living, breathing creatures about. She could possibly run off as far as her eyes could see, or she could refuse to play his game and sit there in silence. But both options would leave her stranded. “I presume you know how one might be revived from this place.” He nodded. “If I guess correctly, you must tell me how.”

“And if you do not,” he offered in response as she lowered herself on the grass, “then shall I leave you here? Nay, my lady, that would not work at all for me. But you must forfeit ought for this little bet, mustn’t you?” The soft smile on his face widened. He caught her chin between his fingers, rising her face lightly towards the golden disk upon a canvas of azure. The expression of his face shifted, as if he were concentrating. “I do believe I have just the thing. If you fail, I shall have of you a favour, to be called in at whichever time I have need of it. Does that seem fair?”

Bearing in mind that he could ask her for anything, Lyanna did not accept straight away. “It seems a high price to pay.” A cloud caught her attention, taking her away for a brief spell. “I will require a number of questions if I am to puzzle out your identity.”

“I am not averse to answering your questions.” Her gaze returned to him, focusing on slender fingers toying with a long blade of grass. “Well, my lady, shall we begin?”

A hum of agreement left her lips. Lyanna considered the first of her inquiries. Best to make certain he was not a figment of her imagination. “Do you exist somewhere without? Somewhere other than here?” His nod put her at ease while simultaneously bringing a torrent of worries upon her. “How did you get here then?”

“This world between worlds is home to more than you can imagine. There is only one way to reach it” He leaned in slightly. “You have to dive deep into yourself and expand. This is where everything is.” The explanation did naught but confuse her. Yet Lyanna was struck by a thought in the thick of it.

“Could it be that you have been waiting for me to reach this place?” She looked about. If what he said was true, than they were simply in one corner of the void, as it were and everything she saw before her eyes was influenced either by her or by him. “Which one of us created this?” She gestured to the world about.

“Mostly you, my lady. I merely offered some details.” The children, she considered. “This here,” he mirrored her earlier movement, “belongs to you.” Convinced she was on the right path, Lyanna kept her silence, urging him silently to continue. “You have fashioned even the image I present to you now.”

“What do you truly look like then?” She’d caught him. If he was anything like she imagined, Lyanna had  every reason to worry. “If you got here and you claim some control over this strange realm, surely I do not ask too much.”

“Were I to appear to you as I am now, it should frighten you dreadfully.” Nonetheless, at her insistence, his lips tightened into a thin line even as the skin seemed to melt off of his bones.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The merchant was seated with his flagon of ale in hand, watching the unfolding scene with curious eyes.

Brynden looked at the man, amusement welling up within him. It should not, he knew, matter at all what this one believed. And yet, he could not help himself. “I know a great deal more than you do, ser,” he assured Lord Arryn’s heir. “Might we ‘twould be wise not to rattle the bars of the cage too much.”

“My apologies, but I am indeed concerned when a stranger claims interest in anyone under my protection,” he drawled out in response. Elbert crossed his arms over his chest and Lord Arryn, who had been until that point seated, rose to intervene.

“Lady Lyanna is the daughter of a man I consider near my brother and a boy I watched grow. My maester is already caring for her. I do not see any reason to set him away from the task, even if it is in favour of someone trusted by the King. I would not be averse, however, if you should work side by side with the man.” Lord Arryn threw his kin a long look. “As for you, pray have a care what words leave your mouth.”

“It makes no matter,” Brynden assured both. “I must make to my lady’s side and see for myself the state she is in.”

The nod of acceptance was more supposed than seen, as Brynden was already mounting the stairs, at times taking two at a time. He reached the second floor and saw the open door. A woman was standing before it, rocking a babe in her arms. Her thick frame was surrounded by faint light. She turned her head towards him, no doubt because of the faint creaks. “Another one?” she asked.

Brynden offered a small grin and approached, looking down at the bundle. Unfocused eyes stared straight ahead as if aught had caught her attention. Those orbs were as strange as he’d known they would be. Lavender and stone grey, how odd a combination, but how telling all the same. “Feed her well, my good woman, for this child is well worth the effort.”

“By the coin they’ve given me, I should say,” the creature snorted, jostling the young one lightly as she moved out of the way. “But ‘tis the mother that needs the care for than this one. The maester swears she’ll be gone come dusk.”

The man could swear all he wanted. Slanting the wetnurse a long look, Brynden shook his head. “There hasn’t yet been a man or woman I couldn’t convince to let go of the Stranger’s hand,” he boasted, moving past her. “Just be sure to keep all away from here until we are done.”     

Stunned, the peasant’s eyes widened at the words. She made to speak but never managed a word before he stepped over the threshold, surveying the efforts of his brother-in-arms, as it were, and the weeping of a young girl, stuck to the bedside as if for that purpose. On the floors, a heap of dirtied sheets rested near the foot of the bed. A man was bent over the prone form of Lady Lyanna, murmuring between clenched lips. He seemed to have reached the end of his rope.

The maester looked up at Brynden’s entrance. His eyes narrowed slightly. “So you were allowed up, after all.” Despite not leaving the bedside, he allowed Brynden to step up next to him. Brynden lifted the lady’s wrist and touched his thumb to her pulse-point. He felt for a few moments, then he sighed. “You can feel it too, aye? She’s not long of this world.”

He placed her arm back upon the bed and knelt by the sheets. He pulled the cloth up and inspected the specks of blood. The maester spoke once more. “She was to have twins, but one of them lies still within her womb.”

“What was she given?” The blood was a strange dark colour, almost as if it had clotted before emerging. He stood and returned his attention to the slumbering woman. Her colour was still good, if slightly high. But the more blood she lost, the more her colour would leech away.

“Tansy tincture with a few drops of rue brew. Her body is too weak and the contractions are much too shallow.” Brynden nodded at the wisdom of such words. “I might have tried pouring some more of the concoction down her throat, but I fear that as is ‘tis hopeless.”

“Nay. Naught is yet hopeless.” Settling his eyes upon the servant her, he roused her with a resounding call. “You there, enough weeping! Stand and search your lady’s coffer.” Confused, she stood and stepped towards the coffer. “A small bottle is what I need. Dark stained glass.”

Her trembling hand made quick work of pulling out a myriad of items until at long last she found what he’d requested. She held it up triumphantly. “This one?” Brynden nodded and held his hand out. She left it in his grasp.

Brynden uncorked it and spilled a drop in his palm, then tasted the concoction. With a nod, he passed it into the maester’s hand, “This one should do.” The man tasted it as well, but his face reflected horror rather than hope.

“She’ll bleed out,” he warned. “There is too much rue in this.”

“Not if we move fast enough.” He could hold her in the world between worlds long enough for her body to rest. Her faint voice continued to murmur in his ears as it had until that point, a constant stream. He bent over the lady and lifted the covers. “Your efforts have not been in vain.” Her body had already doubled its efforts.

The servant girl had begun crying again, but Brynden no longer had any need of her. “Bring more sheets,” he told her, in order to get her away as the maester fed the patient a quarter of the bottle’s contents. A drop of the tincture slid down a damp cheek until it reached the flat surface of the pillow, sinking into the cloth and might be even reaching the feathers beneath. A sickeningly sweet scent filled the bedchamber, growing in strength with every passing moment.

Brynden pressed a hand upon her bulging middle. A groan left the she-wolf’s lips. He pressed harder and the sound became louder. Convinced of his success, he gave the maester a slow nod, signalling that it was time to begin.

The man hesitated. He looked down upon the woman’s face. “’Tis your funeral if aught goes wrong.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He was woken from his slumber by the repetitive and rather disrupting sequence of gentle raps on his door. Jaime came to with a disgruntled murmur, a moment of disoriented fumbling giving way to general lethargy. If he ignored the summons, they might go away. By the gods, he’d not been asleep for that long. Every muscle protested movement. The taps came once more, slow and even, with the constancy of maddening waves.

Jaime cursed and turned on his side, eyes opening groggily. He clambered out of bed and struggled against the vicious sunblades spearing through the lancet. With a murmur of protest, he donned proper covering before marching to the bedchamber’s door and yanking it open. A wail rent the silence.

Confusion suffused his thoughts as he glared at the intruder. Plump lips grinned up at him, the unnatural red striking against pale skin. The slash of colour embedded itself into his mind even as she stepped forth, long limbs curling around him in greeting. “I was hoping to find you awake.” The slightly husky voice flittered about his ear.

Alarmed, Jaime tried to disentangle himself from the warm cold, convinced he still slept and dreamed or that his mind played tricks on him. After a couple of failed attempts, the fading confusion made way for flaring annoyance. With a sharp tug, he broke free of the woman’s grasp. “Bloody hells, the fuck you think you’re doing, wench?” Had she come creeping from Dayne’s bed to his, or was his sworn brother on duty? It made no matter, she would find herself the recipient of a thorough lashing if she didn’t take herself off. “Out!” he hissed at the proudly smiling woman.

But the Lysene whore merely took another step towards him, laughter spilling past her painted lips. He now took in the sturdiness of her garments, seemingly more in keeping with the conservative, gods-fearing womenfolk of the keep. “Fear not, my taste does not run to mere boys. I am here on the word of Arthur.”

“I much doubt he sent you to play the temptress in my bedchamber,” he answered suspicious of her very presence. He walked to the table near his bed and picked up the carafe. There was still some wine left in it. Without bothering to pour it in a cup, he downed the liquid in a few gulps.

Once done, Jaime glanced at Darya over his shoulder. The woman waited on him, eyes roaming the sparsely furnished chamber. A strange bedfellow if ever he’d seen one. What Arthur saw in her beside her beauty, Jaime could not see; yet he was certain it was aught. It had to be for him to keep her long beyond those first few nights. “What does Dayne want?”

“’Tis more a matter of what the King desires, Ser Jaime.” Her eyes glinted with a fiendish gleam. It was almost as if she was having a good laugh at his expense. Bothered, Jaime glared at her in turn, hoping to dissuade any folly on her part. Unperturbed, she continued her perusal of the surroundings.

“Then what does the King wish of me?” And could he not have said something before Jaime had had a chance to sink into the bliss of slumber? He rolled his shoulders, driving away the last vestiges of sleep. With a clear head, he regarded the Lysene woman.

“It would be best if you saw for yourself, ser. I do not wish to ruin it.” Her arm stretched out invitingly and Jaime, taking heart in her apparent loss of interest, took her up on the unspoken invitation. Darya kept one pace ahead of his as she lead them both to the upper levels of the tower. Jaime made no comment as she opened the door to an empty chamber.

He watched with some disquiet as the stones in the wall trembled before a gap opened from which the Spider crawled out, albeit standing to his feet. “It seems I am late.” His voice, almost velvet-like in quality, turned Jaime’s stomach over. “And here I’d been hoping to surprise our errant knight.”

“Pray do not think yourself a failure,” Jaime mocked, “I am well surprised as is.” Did the Spider truly spend his time slinking through the walls of the keep all day? It was no wonder he knew as much as he did and even less wonder that the King was not all that fond of the man.      

“If you say so, ser,” Varys allowed, the honeyed voice carrying over aught the pillow girl murmured. “Follow me then. There waits a mummer’s farce you would not wish to miss.” Such peculiar words served to further Jaime’s interest as well as cultivate suspicion within him.

Varys squeezed back through the gap and Darya invited him to follow. Jaime did not hesitate. The narrow space took him in, bathing the three of them in faint, warm fire-glow. There was a single torch on the wall, waiting to guide their way.

It took unnumbered steps through the tunnels before the space widened slightly, Ahead, a familiar figure was resting against the wall, a stony expression the only inkling trouble was brewing. Jaime looked towards Arthur with interest but the normally jovial Kingsguard merely shook his head, held a finger to his lips and nodded towards the wall.   

And it was then than he heard it. A voice so well-known to him he could recognise it in his most feverish dreams. “Your Majesty, I would be willing to do anything. Forsooth, there is no man I’ve ever loved. Since the days of my girlhood. Since the tourney. I was certain my aunt had the right of it and could not have been happier.”

“A pity my father never saw the wisdom of such a match.” Jaime’s frown deepened. What was his King doing? “Think of it not, my lady. I did not mean to put you in an uncomfortable position.”

“Nay.” Her quick protest slashed through him. “Nay. I shall join you on the hunt. You must know–“ There she paused, to gather herself. “If I can do naught else, let me do but this.”

Nausea washed over him. For one brief, horrified moment, Jaime feared his spinning head would land him in a heap on the ground.

A firm hand pressed upon his shoulder.   

 

 

 

 

 

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) Lxwm twza wm e iemlab yqqb, Ixar gqk bqr’l twja wl em gqk iqktb! Erb rqi iwmxam e dendenwc lnwda, Gqkn racu wr dqrbeya lwa: Lxel ia iana dqnr wm cknma arqkyx, Iwmx ia e macqrb dera? Zqn mxqktb ia qz yqbm bamcarb, Qra baelx mlwtt wm lq da pewb! Wl’m ett lxa mesa wz gqk mxqktb bwa Gqkry teb qn ser wr xwm qtb eya; Dkl rql lxa mesa e twqr arb, Qn bqy wr cxewrm lq bwa. 
> 
> 2) Qkn terb wm xqtg, nwcx erb dneja, Wl wm qkn cnebta erb qkn yneja; Ia xeja bazarbab wl iwlx miael Erb dtqqb, erb dwllan laenm xeja ial Aecx pets qz wl – mq, bqr’l zqnyal:‘Lwm terb ia cneja!


	17. Last Breath

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aegon dangled the bit of ribbon before his brother’s eyes. Jon was still standing behind him, looking over his shoulder into the chubby, plump-cheeked, wide-eyed face of the babe. The long strand of silk trembled as the vessel leaned to the side and Aegon himself lost his balance for all of four heartbeats, Jon had counted. He caught the Prince before he fell to the ground and Aegon had grabbed onto the cradle to keep it from tipping over. Daeron shrieked in apparent enthusiasm, one fat fist moving with yet unseen speed.

The limb slashed through the air, not meeting aught on its way. The cradle creaked, wood grating against wood. The babe babbled incoherently, caught in conversation despite the fact that neither Aegon, nor Jon understood a thing. The ship leaned to the other side and the small door to the cabin crashed open, the wetnurse coming in with her heavy steps. She saw the two of them near the cradle and let out a disapproving sound. Unlike the septa, she held little sway, thus her admonishments were for the most part wrapped in honey and impotency. Still, it was a step up from the nasty minder of the Red Keep, thus Jon found no reason to complain even at the few half-hearted words of censure.

“You two had best run off to your play, else Her Majesty shan’t be well too pleased,” the woman shooed them away, picking Daeron up in her arms. “Go now, before she wakes.”

Jon frowned at the instructions. There were three cabins available on the ship. One had been taken up by the Queen, the other was in use by Prince Oberyn and his ever-faithful Ellaria with the third being used as a makeshift nursery, hosing not only Daeron, but the rest of the children as well. There was no complaint he had with the accommodations themselves, and yet Jon found that he could hardly wait for them to reach land.

Without solid ground beneath his feet, he found it difficult to even fall asleep. Long were the nights and filled with uncertainty. There was no rustling of curtains to distract him from slumber, nor any manner of jolting sounds to chip away at his rest. And that was for the most part the issue. Without aught resembling earth, hurtled far into the waves, Jon had no way of contacting the raven, therefore little else but hope to carry him through the journey.

“Mother is still sleeping,” Aegon responded to the woman, having grabbed a handful of her skirts. “And Rhaenys is sick up on deck. We are staying here.”

The sight was unpleasant. Poor Aegon’s sister, she had been a tad off ever since the beginning. Aegon had told Jon she’d been crying before they left as she did not wish to go without the King and that the Queen had said it was what had made her sick. They had both shrugged it off, certain that the mother knew better. But then Elia Martell herself came down with some sort of illness.

Unlike the daughter, the mother was beset by migraines and a sense of disorientation. She had boarded the vessel for a little while when the sickness asserted itself. At first is had been little more but a few coughs and some fatigue, explained away by the woman’s fragile state, whatever that meant. Ellaria Sand had explained that the Queen was going to have another babe and her body grew tired nurturing the new life, thus she needed rest. Jon had thought about his own mother in that instance, comforting Aegon to the best of his abilities, as his sister was not at all in any condition to do so.

Ellaria had taken both of them on deck and allowed them to run around for a bit under the care, half-hearted but still effective, of the Dornish Prince. Yet they’d grown, fairly quickly by anyone’s count, bored with that and had been sent in the cabins below as beside the potential outcome of them running about, they annoyed the ailing Princess who was busy leaning over a rail and ridding herself of any and all foods she’d recently tasted.

“She’ll find her sea-legs,“ a sailor had assured them at the dusting of worry on the Prince’s face.

Still, that left them both with only the wetnurse and Daeron for company. Jon moved away from Aegon, climbing upon the slightly raised cot on which he’d been sleeping for the past few days. The woman looked between the babe and the older child. “Your Grace, the Queen should really not be pleased. I pray you, have your fun elsewhere.”

But Aegon was determined and naught the woman said would change his mind. Thus Jon had little else to do himself but sit on the cot and watch as the Prince continued to toy with the babe. Daeron, mesmerised by the bit of ribbon as he had been before, was pleased to play into his brother’s hands.

For a few moments the wetnurse glanced towards Jon, as if asking him for aid, but he merely shrugged and continued to observe the two boys. The woman looked away. He could barely understand what she’d meant. It was not as if Jon could ever dissuade the heir from doing aught which he would. And in that, he supposed, she’d placed her hopes in him.

The babe gurgled then squealed, finally managing to grip the string dangled before him. Stumpy fingers curled around the scrap, tugging away at the silk. “Nay, Daeron, let go,” chided Aegon, trying to reclaim his prize. But his opponent was not of a like mind. “Daeron.” But neither coaxing, nor threatening the child seemed to have any effect on him.

“Your Grace, he is yet small and does not know better,” the wetnurse cut in.

“Never you mind,” Aegon replied, not even looking away from his kin. Daeron continued to pull.

Jon smiled softly. He did not move though for it was apparent he was not needed. Aegon had already contrived a way of entertaining himself.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Princess took hold of Ellaria’s hand, her soft palm still damp. Clammy fingers clung to her own, the strong scent of herbs wafting to her nostrils. Rhaenys’ other hand held a kerchief over her lips and nose. “There, there,” Ellaria consoled her. “’Tis not so bad, is it?” She could attest from her own experience that the ailment plaguing those travelling by sea lasted well into travel. She continued to stroke the girl’s dark hair as she nodded languidly. She almost wished she could help her along to a small chamber and let her rest within warm sheets. Alas, one bed was occupied by the Queen, the other chamber was beset by two rapscallions and a gurgling babe. The poor Princess would gave a soft sigh, hold tightening.

“I want father,” she moaned pathetically. “I want father.” That had been the child’s mantra as soon as sickness claimed her. Her lady mother had responded with a swift admonishment that she was no longer a babe and could not expect that they turn around for her wailing. It had been well-meant, Ellaria could not deny, and might be a tad harsh on account of the Queen’s own fatigue taking hold, but it had disheartened the girl tremendously.

“Your father has duties to the throne,” she reminded the suffering creature gently. “You would not wish to disturb his work, would you?” The question was greeted with a whimper and a spasm. “Come, Your Grace, you mustn’t carry on so.” Rhaenys removed the cloth from her nostrils and blinked slowly.

“Send a raven. Father will come if I ask.” Ellaria did not doubt for a moment that the King would either come himself or send someone. But they would be arriving soon. Dorne waited. Her child was so close. “I want to send a raven.”

To her great relief, the Princess neither started weeping, nor started shrieking. Instead she pouted and crossed her arms over her chest. Ellaria smiled down at her nonetheless and continued stroking. “If Your Grace so wishes, aye, let us send a raven. Yet know you that His Majesty would need to travel many a day to reach us?”

Her frown deepened. “When mother is better then,” she concurred. The kerchief was placed back upon her mouth and she breathed a few times through it. “Speak to mother for me, aye?” The muffled words were very nearly lost on Ellaria as the vessel leaned heavily to the side, causing her to lose her until then finely held balance.

Her hand acted as cane and support, holding both herself and the Princess from crashing to the ground. Rhaenys had in the meantime wiggled on her side, arms flying around Ellaria, kerchief lost. One of the sailors stopped a barrel from rolling over towards then and the ship resumed its smooth sailing. “It is over now,” she let the girl know, holding her up and bringing her into a sitting position. “Were you frightened?”

Rhaenys nodded, wrapping her arms around Ellaria once again. Having little else to do but sit with the child, she hugged her back, rocking her to and fro. “Once your uncle wakes, I shall take you to the cabin and, if you wish, I will sing for you.” She felt the child nod against her. “Then we can have a nice nap together.

“May I see mother after we wake? We can speak to her of the raven.” How uncomplicated the minds of children were. Ellaria marvelled at it for all of half a heartbeat and tightened her embrace.

“We will do as you wish, Your Grace,” she promised. Forsooth it was a dangerous thing to say to a child, and yet she did not have the heart to do otherwise. The gruelling journey had left the Princess fit for the bed and naught like the lively girl she usually was. “Are you feeling better now?”

Somewhat calmed after her ordeal, the Princess broke away and offered a slim smile. “Better.” She glanced towards a few of the sailors who were about their business and paid them little mind. “Aegon and Jon can run around all they like. Even Daeron has no troubles at all. ‘Tis unfair.”

“It will all be better soon. Why don’t I tell you about Sunspear and the gardens.” Distracted by the promise of entertainment, Rhaenys listened as Ellaria told her of a long-gone Daenerys and glistening pools of sun-warmed water, towers of children shrieking with laughter and all which she knew would possibly hold her interest. “And once we are there I will show it to you myself. Let us see what your brother shall say to you then and if hew is mean you may throw him in the water.”

The girl laughed, holding a hand upon her chest. “But Aegon cannot swim.” At the very least she was willing to entertain the notion. Pleased enough with her victory, Ellaria allowed that they might all learn to swim together. “Jon as well, then. My brother has taken it into his head that he and Jon are to be like brothers.”

She too had been made aware of this, not so much by the Prince who, while completely obvious did not make an issue out of the decision, but by the Queen, who was slightly less than pleased but bore it with easy grace for which Ellaria was glad. “Then we shall teach Jon how to swim as well. Never fear, Your Grace, by the end of the first few days all of you shall be excellent swimmers.”

Before she could expound upon the other wonders waiting for them, she caught sight of a pale-faced woman, making her way towards them. “My lady, is aught the matter?” she questioned, noting the other’s slight trembling.

Thin lips parted several times, but no words came out. “His Grace,” she mumbled. “We must wake His Grace. The Queen.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “The Queen.” Ellaria’s hands had already moved to cover the Princess’ ears, heart dropping into her stomach.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bvh, gsrh rh vhhvmgrzoob z wrxp nlev, yfg blf'oo orev drgs rg, R'n hfiv. 
> 
> Well, I hope you're befuddled and unfulfilled. If you have complaints you may lodge them with the Ministry of Luv.
> 
> Until next time.
> 
> Ooops, nearly forgot: Hfxxvhhrlm: Iszvtzi R Gzitzibvm; Zvtlm ER Gzitzibvm, srh hlm; Iszvmbh Gzitzibvm, wzftsgvi lu Iszvtzi; Zvnlm R Gzitzibvm, hlm lu Iszvtzi; Wzvnlm Gzitzibvm, srh hlm; Zvibh RRR Gzitzibvm, srh hlm; Tzvnlm R Gzitzibvm, srh hlm; Tzvnlm RR Gzitzibvm; Qlmlh Gzitzibvm , srh hlm; Tzvnlm RR Gzitzibvm; Nzvoli Gzitzibvm, hlm lu Qlmlh; Iszvtzi RR Gzitzibvm, yilgsvi lu Nzvoli; Wzvilm RRR Giztzibvm, srh yilgsvi; Wzvmviz Gzitzibvm, wzftsgvi lu Wzvilm Gzitzibvm; Zvtlm ERR Gzitzibvm, svi hlm; Szvtzi Gzitzibvm, srh hlm; Nzvtli RR Gzitzibvm, srh hlm; Wzvilm RE Gzitzibvm, srh hlm; Iszvtzi RRR Gzitzibvm, srh hlm; Zorc R Gzitzibvm, srh hlm; Zorc RR Gzitzibvm, srh hlm; Evozvmz Gzitzibvm, srh wzftsgvi.


	18. A Bloom In Frost-grip

 

 

 

 

 

 

Arthur braced himself against the wall, looking towards his friend unblinkingly. “It is not as simple as that,” he reminded Rhaegar even as Richard Lonmouth finished his task with a flourish. “It’s all good and well to suppose it’ll be just like you envisioned, but Rhaegar, you are dealing with a human being here. She might not give in.” He much doubted the words himself, and yet they had to be spoken. “And what of your lady wife?”

“What of Elia?” the other questioned back, waving Lonmouth away. The squire did not waste time complying. The door creaked before closing with an almost soundless thump. “Dorne is yet far enough that she mightn’t hear any of this for some time. Enough time, one should hope, to deal with the mess.”

“And Lyanna’s kin? They are far nearer.” Rhaegar paused, goblet raised midway to his lips. Arthur did not. “You must realise how this will look to them. Ashara herself told me they’ve already started to mumble about it. There must be aught else you can do.”

“There is always waiting,” the King agreed after taking a sip of his wine. “After all, even the bets of them make mistakes. Alas, I haven’t the time, nor the patience for it. As for Lyanna’s kin, they had best keep from trampling where they’ve no business stepping in. Let your sister know that.”

Forcing himself to keep from smiling, Arthur considered Ashara’s possible reactions. She might well take hold of her husband’s hand and drag him all the way back to Starfall or Winterfell; a task most dangerous in her current state. The Seven only knew what should be her fate if the child decided it was high time he or she saw the sunlight. Although, Arthur experienced a slight pinch at the thought, he turned to considering the second response his sibling might exhibit. Ashara seemed to like Lyanna well enough, some would go as far as to say they’d become friendly during the other’s stay at court. It was then natural to presume his sister might take it into her head to ignore any warning given and press on in her endeavour to protect those dear to her. And by the gods, all Daynes were a stubborn lot; it could not end well. There was, naturally, a third option. Ashara could, if all was handled correctly, sit her husband down and explain to him in no uncertain term that there was more to the current events that one might think. But that should only raise more questions. Arthur shook his head, eyes following his friend’s movement.    

“I shall tell her. But any single one of them might decide to write to Lady Lyanna. You cannot say this does not concern her in the least either.” And if the woman were to do a thing about it, then Arthur much suspected she would resort to stomping as opposed trampling. One of them was surely worse than the other, but he could not quite decide which would cause an increased amount of havoc.

“Lyanna will understand.” It was not the words themselves which surprised Arthur. He’d long known Rhaegar had placed the woman on a high pedestal. It was rather that he thought her position had been somewhat shaken given their rather cold parting. Naturally, he couldn’t imagine that Rhaegar would ever think ill of her, but still, he should have realised by now the flaws in her built.

“Correct me if I err, Your Majesty, but is Lady Lyanna not a human as you and I? Does she not make mistakes?” The poor fool; men who loved as he did could rarely feel the joy of the emotion. Rhaegar nodded. “Then she might not understand.”

“I shall explain it to her then,” the King resolved. “As many times as necessary, I shall explain it to her until she understands.”

But still, understanding and agreeing were two separate matters. Even if the woman did understand, she might be upset. And who was to say that would not be enough to break her trust. Fickle as women were it would be true to form. “The easy road is often the wrong one. There is much peril here.”

“Are you planning on abandoning me?” Rhaegar questioned, a half-smile stretching his lips.

“Not I, Your Majesty. I would follow you anywhere. ‘Tis not me I speak of.” Peril he could face even asleep if he put his mind to it. “Is there naught I may say which would dissuade you?” The King shook his head. “Very well then, let us face this together.”

Rhaegar would have to find out on his own what price would be required for his plan. After all, Arthur could only protect him from those dangers which were tangible. The rest was up to him alone. It was high time his friend came face to face with those harsher instances of life.

“Tell Darya that she is to be as discreet as possible,” Rhaegar instructed before he occupied his chair. “I fear that if Ser Jaime suspects aught he would fight us on it.” As any sane man might, Arthur supplied silently. “And be certain no one else sees her.”

“No single one of my brothers would betray her presence.” The assurance was met with a nod. “Rhaegar, about Jaime, you should know that–“ He never managed to finish, for his friend held one hand up, silencing him.

“Do not tell me. I will speak to Ser Jaime and he may defend himself when the time comes.” The King was trying aught, Arthur was just not sure what exactly. “Do not fret. I would not make more of a scandal out of this than it need be.”

Yet it was a huge scandal already. It could only explode that much harsher if others were to find out. Arthur did not say more though. Whatever his words, Rhaegar had already set the course. He could simply have to whether the ensuing storm when it reached his shores.

He left Rhaegar to his own machinations, making his way to Darya, weighed down by his own worries and misgivings regarding the plan. The Lysene woman he found exactly where he’d left her, sprawled out on the bed, a scroll in hand, perusing the small neat hand of some forgotten maester. She looked up upon his entry.

“He is determined,” were the first words to leave his lips as he helped Darya off the bed. “Are you certain you wish to involve yourself?”

“Worried for me?” she laughed gaily. “I am under no one’s control, Arthur. Even if this Lord Lannister would somehow dissuade a man or two, it is no great loss. Visibly pleased with her own answer, she looked at him through twinkling eyes. “I’ve had worse enemies.”

“That I do not believe,” he hurried to reply even as his shoulders slumped in relief at her show of courage. ”I presume you mean your competition, but I assure you, the Lion would best them all. Even were they put together.”

“And why should he?” Darya demanded, amusement tingeing her protest. Arthur suspected she put on a brave face for him. “You have never seen any if them wielding their arsenal at full potential, so you would not know, ser. Whereas I, well, let us say I have a wealth of knowledge upon the matter.” 

“Tell me then,” Arthur encouraged, “what is it they do that is so frightening?” Darya had already begun to move away towards a small looking-glass she’d brought along.

Without glancing towards him, she spoke, “The nature of the business itself implies a good dose of competitive behaviour, so one tends to overlook the instances in which ‘tis taken too far, but most of my sisters would be willing to do aught for an important client. And they are a petty, jealous lot. You see, there might not be any binding contract between a pillow girl and a client, but she’ll make her own bindings. If another tries to snatch away her prize there will be more than tuffs of ripped hair and yells of recriminations.”

“Do tell, Darya. I confess, this is scintillating.” And he had to wonder if she herself had ever entered such a match. The image flashed before his eyes.

“If a pillow girl is particularly determined, she will purchase tears. A few drops and the problem is forever solved. The crueller ones will even leave their opponents to suffer for the rest of their lives. A hot iron, mayhap, or even a plain knife. There are method enough.”

“So there are,” Arthur allowed after a few moments of silence. “One wonders how these tales never leave Lys.”

“And why should they? Those guilty rarely speak of it themselves and certainly not to their patrons. Would anyone feel safe bedding down with them after?” She shook her head, the reflection eyeing him as he approached her. “At times I do wish it were less of a risk.”

“Aye, I imagine you would.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Straw crunched softly beneath the heel of his boot. The huddled figured remained in the darkened corner, clinging one to the other as if that might save their wretched lives. Other than the faint rustling of his own cloak there was no sound to be heard. Not even the mice for that matter.

“You two,” he spoke, watching the prisoners flinch, “enough cowering. Look at me.”  The words reverberated through the small cell to no effects upon the man and woman. “Your loss then,” he muttered. “I thought you might enjoy a bit of bread and clean water.”

At the mention of food, one of the figures glanced towards him. It was the man, Jon decided upon seeing the irregular shape of his nose. It was crooked, as if it had been broken before. He knew for a fact that it had, by a powerful blow from the torturer. “Got you attention, have I?” Dark eyes watched him. The man did not move though. Jon lifted the torch so that the light may fall upon them.

The woman slept, her shorn hair responsible for the earlier confusion he’d suffered. Her partner in crime had allowed her to use his lap for a pillow, though Jon rather though the sacrifice had gone unnoticed. Morons the both of them, to think they could place themselves in the path of the dragon. “Wake her up,” he ordered, gaze sliding from the woman to the man. “Or I’ll call the guards to do it.”  

Upon hearing the threat, the man mumbled a few words beneath his breath, likely made unintelligible by his lack of teeth than by the fact he spoke softly, and placed a hand upon the woman’s shoulder. One of the fingers was missing, the thumb. In its place was a blackened bit of flesh, signalling that the wound had been cauterised. The middle finger was a stick of raw flesh, the skin having been peeled off beforehand. The rest of the fingers sported no visible mistreatment. Hunched over as he was, the inmate presented the side of his face, black and blue, to Jon’s leisure perusal.

With some effort the woman came to, a cry upon her lips as she was jostled awake. She jumped in a sitting position, the rag covering her sliding down one shoulder to reveal the mottled skin beneath. The sickly yellow of her bruises mingled with a stronger purple, flowering along her flesh in roses. Dark eyes fixed upon his form, dread creeping into the cracks of an apathetic mask. The woman bowed her head.

A deafening silence settled over the three of them, blocking out even the knowledge that without these walls existed an entire world, spinning madly on, never still for even as long as a moment. The heaviness of it very near cause Jon to stagger. He’d not been long in these lower levels and he could already taste despair lathering itself upon his tongue, its sickly sweet taste putting him in the mind of poison.

Did these two long for poison? Would they swallow it and thank him after? Jon continued on in silence as the man shifted slightly from his position, one of his legs sliding out. His companion moved only enough to lift her head fractionally.

And thus they remained waiting.

After what seemed to him half a lifetime, Jon finally spoke, his voice a dagger to the oppressive stillness. “His Majesty has a task for the two of you.” The woman jumped in her seat. Likely she’d not forgotten the King’s hand upon her. Just as well. “Fulfil it as it please him and, who knows, you may find some mercy despite your crimes.”

The woman’s lower lip trembled. Jon supposed that if cleaned and dressed in decent attire she would make a becoming sight; if one enjoyed such things that was. The clear line of her bosom indicated that indeed one might enjoy the sight tremendously if belonging to that category. For himself, dispassion gripped him.

“What must we do?” Her voice was clearer than her companion’s, but it still slurred lightly upon the tail end of her speech.

“Naught which might prove a hardship to you.” A flicker of something settled upon her face at his response. “The King wishes to know if Lady Cersei knows your hand well?”

“That she does. Mine and Ancel’s beside.” Her nod of emphasis was echoed by the man. “I have written her many a notes in my time.”

“And she still trusts you with your task, aye?” A flush stole over the woman’s face, blood rushing beneath the pallid skin. She nodded. “Tell her then as follows in your missive: you have fulfilled your task and taken care of her rival. I do not care what method you choose to detail so long as there is no doubt of its result. She must be certain the victory is hers.”

“Does the King wish to know the method though?” she questioned, a drop of impertinence sliding through the mountain of fear. “She won’t suspect a thing, I swear. On my daughter’s life, I swear.” How confident she was. He wondered how long it would last.

“His Majesty only wishes that you do as he says. Convince Lady Cersei that there is no longer any danger for her and that her orders had been carried out. Mind, it must be clear the orders were hers.” She nodded eagerly at the words.

Jon produced a piece of paper from a pocket and from another he retrieved ink and a rough quill. It was too elaborate a trap for an easy catch, he thought, holding them out towards the woman. She grabbed the offerings and placed them upon the straw-covered floor. Slim fingers smoothed over the piece of parchment. She was using only one of her hands.     

The woman wrote a few lines, carefully mouthing the words out. Her hand was small and neat. The loops were certainly distinctive. Jon waited for her to be done.

“Tell His Majesty not to forget his promise,” she whispered, holding out the message.

Jon nodded.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“She is there, Your Majesty,” Varys informed him. “I have made certain you shall not be interrupted.” The Spider rubbed his hands together, smooth skin glistening in the low light. “You are certain?” Beady eyes were stuck on him, the darkness hollowing his soul from within.

Rhaegar nodded his head. “If someone should happen by, make certain they do not enter,” he instructed the Kingsguards. Their dutiful nods failed to put him at ease thought.

While he was certain no one would enter with the two men posted at the entrance, Rhaegar felt a creeping sense of unease wrap around him, the tight grip suffocating. He was truly going to attract Cersei Lannister into the trap. And then Lord Tywin would come. What a surprise fate had in store for the man. He’d thought about it. There was little to no chance the man had known about his son and daughter’s relationship. If he had, it would not have continued to this day. 

“Your Majesty, we may begin as soon as you are prepared.” The bald man received a nod for his efforts to which he retreated, allowing Rhaegar to enter if he so chose.

Once he was within, there would be no going back. He supposed that was what frightened him most. Tywin Lannister would fight tooth and nail for what he believed his due if they never managed to convince him of the veracity of their claims. He closed his eyes, allowing the thought to flitter through his head.

If he played his cards right, then she would never suspect aught and would confess all to her brother. Or to him, if they failed to attract Jaime to their side. If it were up to him, he would have simply thrown the man in the dungeons, leaving him there to rot for some time; at the very least until his father arrived. Alas, Arthur had insisted until he convinced him that the cub was worth saving. For whatever reason, his friend was convinced that the young man would aid them as soon as he saw the faithlessness of his sister. Thus whether he found himself in agreement regarding Ser Jaime’s character, Rhaegar had agreed to the plan his friend suggested.

Ser Whent shifted his position, looking towards Ser Barristan as if to ask for clarifications. The other man responded with a small shrug, as if to say he was not aware of aught and if he was he would never tell. Rhaegar held back a smirk. “This should be all,” he murmured to himself. “Come, let us proceed.”

Without glancing back towards the Spider, convinced the man knew what to do, he put a hand upon the door and pushed it inwards. It gave way, opening with a loud creak. He entered, fully expecting to catch sight of the woman he sought and he was not disappointed in the least, for there she was.  It was time to make the best of his role and after might be join a mummer’s troupe.  

Cersei had been carefully studying a selection of scrolls, heavy skirts shifting ever so slightly with the small steps she took. While she seemed well-aware of his presence, she never turned to acknowledge him. Rather, the woman continued her perusal, absorbed by what Rhaegar could only suppose to be old songs. It was, after all, what the chamber housed. He couldn’t even recall if they were in High Valyrian or not. Some might well have been in bastard dialects.         

There was little change to the woman before him. Cersei Lannister, it was no secret, was might be the most beautiful maiden, used in the very loose sense, in all the land. It was those golden curls, falling gently over rounded shoulders, half-revealed by the wide neck-line of her gown, and the eyes. Deep green orbs, mesmerising any poor unfortunate fool who dared stare too long. And if he thought her half as innocent as she looked, Rhaegar supposed he too might fall under her spell. Thankfully, he’d been made aware of her character.

“My lady, I am much surprised to find you here,” he spoke, watching faux wonder cross her features. She looked up with a quick dash of the head, as if he’d caught her unawares. “Have I frightened you? Apologies, my lady. ‘Twas not my intent.” 

“Frightened me?” she repeated breathlessly before catching herself. “Nay, Your Majesty. Why, frighten me indeed. Such a ridiculous thought. I was merely not prepared for such an encounter.” She curtsied, the ruby folds of her dress quivering delicately. The very air around her seemed to glow.

“Then I may rest easy.” She beamed at him, revealing two straight rows of pearly white teeth. Rhaegar allowed himself to smile in response. “What brings you here, Lady Cersei, at such an hour?” Granted it was not too late, but she was courting danger.

“I enjoy a good tale before respite,” she explained, holding out one of the scrolls. “I thought to come here and choose one. If Your Majesty is not opposed.” The last line was a shy appeal to his approval; she wanted to impress him.

“Opposed? Never.” He walked around the table upon which she’d placed a few such scrolls and picked a random one, holding it up. He read the first few lines, trying to recall if he had read it before. “I am most glad, my lady. It seems to me we are of a mind. Have you decided upon a tale yet?”

She shook her head. “I confess it is more difficult that I thought it would be. They are all of them so gripping. I daresay I would need a dozen more eyes to be able to finish the as soon as I wish.” A sigh left her lips, the rosy colour accentuated with aught glistening concoction. “What am I to do, Your Majesty; I shall be here until the morrow as it is.” Her eyes begged for his aid.

What was he to do but accept? Rhaegar placed the scroll back upon the table. “If I should choose one for you, then, my lady, would t serve? I have read most of them, so if you would only tell me what it is you seek in this tale?”

Cersei giggled, her sleeve brushing his arm and she hesitantly chose a scroll herself, eyeing the lettering. “Nay, Your Majesty should think me foolish. I cannot say the words.” It had to be said, the woman knew how to play her role. If ever Lord Tywin wished for entertainment, he had best call upon his daughter. Her lips parted slightly only for her hand to make a dismissive motion. “Nay.”

“Do tell, else I shall think I have somehow offended you and you do not wish to speak to me.” She pursed her lips, eyes falling upon him. Though they’d narrowed somewhat, Rhaegar could not detect true annoyance in them. She was simply playing coy. “My lady.”

“Your Majesty must promise not to laugh.” He nodded. “Nay, Your Majesty, I would hear the words.”

“Very well, my lady. I do solemnly swear not to laugh whatever you tell me. There, will that do?” She allowed that it would after a moment of consideration. Linking her arm through his in a seemingly mindless gesture, Cersei fingered another scroll.

“It shall do marvellously. You see, Your Majesty, I was looking for a tale of love. True love. The bards capture it so beautifully.” She laughed, the sound barely hiding a note of remorse. “I am foolish, aren’t I? To be dreaming about aught which shall never be mine.”

“Whatever could you mean by such words?” He allowed his hand to touch hers encouragingly. “You may tell me, you know.”

“I couldn’t.” Her protest was met with more insistence on his part. “I daren’t, Your Majesty.” Still, he would not allow her escape. Which was what she sought by the looks of it, for she gave in after a short resistance. “The man I love can never be mine.”

“And who is this fool who dares refuse the gift of your heart?” Time to snare the prey. Rhaegar’s fingers wrapped tightly around hers, the smooth skin beneath his trembling.

“He stand before me,” she said, voice rising slightly. As if made aware of an unforgivable mistake, she slapped her free hand to her mouth, eyes downcast. “Your Majesty, pray pretend you did not hear.”

He waited all of a few moments before answering, rather as if it pained him. “Would that I could, my lady. If only my heart,” he trailed off. “Damnation. I cannot do this. You needn’t suffer. I am going hunting on the morrow–” There he stopped, refusing to utter another word.

She, however, was more than willing to speak. “Your Majesty, I would be willing to do anything. Forsooth, there is no man I’ve ever loved as I do you. Since the days of my girlhood. Since the tourney. I was certain my aunt had the right of it and could not have been happier.”

Considering her, Rhaegar answered, “A pity my father never saw the wisdom of such a match. Think of it not, my lady. I did not mean to put you in an uncomfortable position.”

“Nay.” Her protest rang loud. “Nay. I shall join you on the hunt. You must know–. If I can do naught else, let me do but this.”

She leaned in closer, fully prepared to press her lips to his, but Rhaegar sidestepped her, gripping Cersei’s shoulders and pulling her to his chest. She accepted the foiling of her plans with a contented sigh. “We cannot remain here long,” he murmured.

Tall and slim, Cersei had no need to rise on her tiptoes to stand close in height to him. It felt a tad strange to be holding her. Completely at ease in his arms, she acted as though they’d done the exact same thing a thousand times before.

“I know. Give me but a moment, Your Majesty, to compose myself.” She released him and he let go in turn. Without much thought, she grabbed one of the scrolls and held it to her chest. “Your Majesty truly desires my presence?”

“Ardently.” Just not for the reasons she envisioned. Rhaegar took hold of her hand once more and brought it to his lips. “Never doubt it.” She hummed at the contact, seemingly pleased with that for the moment.

“I do wish this moment would never end,” Cersei told him, the smile upon her lips charming to a fault. “To think that on the morrow I shall be the happiest woman in deed. Your Majesty is too good.”

“Hardly.” He let go of her hand. “On the morrow then, I shall be the happiest man there ever was.” And very likely the luckiest too. With a modicum of fortune, Ser Jaime would have heard where his sister’s heart rested and his pride would take care of the rest. “Go now, my lady, before we catch the eyes of anyone. They would not understand.”

“How could they?” the lioness chuckled. “They’ve never lived such joy.” Despite refuting her earlier attempt at a kiss, Rhaegar could not stop her lips from pressing innocently enough to his cheek. “I shall see you on the morrow.” It was a promise in the manner she spoke it; as if to assure herself.

“So you shall,” Rhaegar agreed. After all the hard work, he would not allow her to escape.

Soon she was without, leaving Rhaegar alone in the chamber. He took a few moments to place the scrolls behind him on the shelves. It had not been as difficult as he thought it would be. Thanked be the Seven  that she took the bait. Now to take care of her brother. He turned around and walked to the wall, delivering three hard thumps upon the stone. A series of hits came in reply. He stepped backwards, allowing the necessary space for the spectators.

And in they came.

“Ser Jaime, you look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Rhaegar spoke, catching the attention of the youngest Kingsguard. The blond’s pale, drawn face was more than enough to confirm his suspicions. “Are you unwell?”

“Unwell,” Jaime repeated, a glint coming to life in his eyes. “Aye, Your Majesty, I am unwell.” Despite the fact that Arthur helped steady the youth, he looked ready to lunge at him. “Wjat is the meaninfg of this?”

“That, I fear, is the very question I wish to ask of you. You see, good ser, the walls have eyes and ears.” Lord Tywin’s son did not flinch, however, he did glance about. “And something most interesting had been brought to my attention. Shall we say, a dangerous matter?”

Ser Jaime blinked. “My sister is unwedded. Our lord father plans to find her a spouse. I beg Your Majesty not to make the task impossible.” Rhaegar gave Darya a quelling look when she showed signs of amusement.

“What man would take her in marriage, ser, knowing she had lain with her own brother?” Jaime gasped. “Do not bother denying it. Rather look to your sister and her faithfulness if you will, for it seems to me she threw you aside with much ease.”

Sitting down in the single available chair, Rhaegar took a few moments to inspect Ser Jaime’s face. “I am willing to give you a choice, and even some time to think the matter over. You may fall with your sister for this behaviour of yours, and your entire house besides. Or you may choose to aid me, and save them from the noose. The decision is yours, ser.”  The man’s lips were pressed together in a thin line. “I am giving you until the morrow to make up your mind. If you choose to join me, find Lady Grymelda and she shall tell you what you must do.”

Jaime Lannister never replied. Rhaegar nodded towards Arthur and the Spider, signalling that they could help the man to his own bedchamber. Darya lingered behind them. “’Tis bad form to laugh at the misfortune of others,” he warned the Lysene woman who was skipping towards him. “And even worse from to not know your place.” 

“There now,” she cajoled. “You needn’t be so harsh, Your Majesty. I simply found amusing the ease with which you twisted the poor boy’s mind around. I do not find his suffering amusing, merely entertaining.” He sighed at her direct manner. “And I shall enjoy teaching that sister of his a lesson. I was only looking for an opportunity to show my gratitude.”

“Show it to me on the morrow.” He wondered what Cersei Lannister’s reaction would be. “You should rest now. On the morrow there is much to do. Be off with you.”

A knowing smile crossed her lips. She turned with an exaggerated sway of the hips and disappeared out of sight. For better or worse, he’d already started upon the path; there was no sense in turning back.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coming to as swiftly joined by a pulsating pain concentrated in her lower half. It was naught like the ache she’d felt upon her second husband’s death, yet it still needled her as she forced her eyes open. The heaviness weighing her down did not dissipate even as her mind cleared of the fog. Lyanna moaned softly in discomfort and attempted to deposit her weight on one side in hoped of defecting the pain. When she tried to move, however, she found that there was little allowed to her by the covers fastened about her.

“M’lady,” a voice called out to her. The light streaming through the wide lancets momentarily blinded her, allowing a shadow to place itself in her line of sight. The effects were not felt for long thought. As her sight returned, Lyanna recognised Tilly. The servant girl was bent over her. “M’lady, you are awake. My heart very near burst when I saw. I thought I was dreaming.”

“Water,” she whispered, voice scratchy. But Tilly was already bringing a cup to her lips, allowing a few drops to slide down her throat. Lyanna managed to down a couple of mouthfuls before the door opened.

A thick woman stepped in, carrying a bundle in her arms. When she saw Lyanna had opened her eyes, a smile graced her lips. “Tilly’s been crying like a tomcat after scraps, m’lady, ever since you arrived here.” Lyanna knew what the woman held. She breathed in softly. “She was only matched by the young one.”

The young one was brought nearer. Lyanna sat up with Tilly’s aid and she was given the babe. “”Tis a fine girl. Small mite, but she’s a strong one.” Assuming the woman was a wetnurse of sorts, Lyanna nodded softly. “Come out, Tilly, leave the two.”

Her companion began to protest, but Lyanna shook her head. “Go on. I should like a few moments with my daughter.” Peering into the small face she was somewhat startled by the child’s eyes. While the two colours were similar enough that at a distance they might seem the same, up close she could easily detect the difference. “Determined to make an impression, are we?” she asked the babe.

Her daughter gurgled, one small fist grabbing hold of a silken tendril. Her tug was barely strong enough to cause discomfort. “There, my little love, you are already commanding everyone, I see.” The babe’s skin was very near the colour of milk and its consistency not far off. But she did not seem ailing as far as Lyanna could tell. In fact, her fist had migrated downwards.

Instinctively, she tugged her dress out of the way and held the babe to her chest. The small mouth latched onto her, suckling with vigour. A feeling of calm filled her. It had been some time since she’d been thus, Lyanna thought, holding back the urge to rock her child. If only it would last till the end of her days. A smile lit her face as she glanced down. The light brown fuzz atop her babe’s head was so odd, considering her father had left quite a bit on himself with this child.

“You need a name, sweetling. Mother shall find one for you. A name befitting a little heiress.” After all, it would not do to forget she held the next Lady Rosby in her arms. “Let us see.” She considered her options for a few moments. “How about Nymeria?” A sharp sound came from the infant. “Nay. You do not wish to be called thus?”After a little while she tried once more, “Alysanne?” The child looked up. “You like Alysanne? Alysanne Rosby. Pretty Lady Alys.” Her pretty lady curled a hand against her skin, smooth, warm flesh pressing into her own. “Alysanne it is then.”  

So caught up had she been in the babe that she never even notice the door dancing open on its hinges. “Lady Lyanna,” an unknown voice called for her attention. She looked up, worry worming its way in. “I am the master sent by Lord Arryn. He heard you were awake.”

“Lord Arryn is here?” Was she at the Eyrie? Lyanna looked about; she’d not even noticed her surroundings. “Elbert as well? Is he well?”

“Ser Elbert is well, my lady and Lord Arryn came as soon as he was alerted to the misfortune you have suffered.” He stepped further within, closing the door behind him. The man leaned slightly in. “If ‘tis no bother, I should like to ask a few questions.” She nodded, lifting one shoulder to shield herself from the man’s gaze despite knowing he was no danger. “How are you feeling this day?”

“Well enough,” she allowed. “Is there aught in particular which you ask after?”

“I will be frank, my lady. You were to have two babes; twins.” And yet she was holding only one. Understanding dawned with vicious swiftness. She struggled to keep a calm mien. “Unfortunately, we did not manage to save the other babe. It had been gone for quite some time and its lingering within your womb caused trouble.”

“The early delivery?” Lyanna guessed, keeping her arms firm in their position. Alys was still suckling, but with less vigour.  

“Might be,” the man said, “but it caused an infection as well. You may experience some pain in for a few days, as it was necessary to cleanse your body thoroughly. It should not prove an impediment if in the future my lady should wish to wed again, as I understand you are a widow, yet for some time, I would advise no strenuous activities.”  

“And my babe? Is she hale?” the comforting weight in her arms seemed all of a sudden less a certainty. “Was she affected by the twin?”

“For the moment she is well. Given her early arrival though, my lady should be very strict in her supervision. If she were to catch a head cold, say, or even a chill, she might be compromised.” Her heart squeezed tightly. “I do not say this to dishearten you, my lady, but we must have a care.” He peered at the child as well.

Alys was not paying them mind though She was busily feeding, gulping down nourishment with nary a worry as far as Lyanna could discerned. How glad she was for it.

The door opened a second time. Not caught unawares, Lyanna’s eyes fell upon the familiar acolyte Brynden. He carried in his hands a small urn decorated with all sorts of symbols. The blood in her veins chilled. And yet to say aught would be to show ingratitude. “Acolyte Brynden, what a surprise it is to see you here.”

“If only the circumstances were better, my lady,” the man answered. She could see it in his eyes now. “Maester, if you have assessed that the lady is well, I should like to have a few words as well.” The older man nodded and stepped back from her bedside. “Might be Lord Arryn and his kin should like to hear of what you have learned.”

The polite dismissal was met with acceptance. Lyanna waited for the man to be seated. “I had hoped it was a dream.” He shrugged.

“This is the other child.” He placed the urn upon the bed carefully. “The body was too far corrupted for us to save aught.”

“Did you know, in King’s Landing, that there were two?” Lyanna cursed herself for a fool. She’d not meant to ask him.

“Nay,” he answered and she did not detect insincerity. “I was too late. We have written to Winterfell.”  

  

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clue: Zevmtv sv; hzbh gsv tslhg.


	19. Counterfeit Of Dreams

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jaime warred with himself still even as he stood in the corridor, without his sister’s bedchamber, the flicker of the burning torches distorting his shadow. The helpless imitation fell upon cool stone, the careless paints cutting into the soft projection. Undecided, he remained stock still, one hand pressed against the wood. Should he enter, he would ask her if she planned to go through with the scheme. Jaime knew his sister loved him. He could feel that. He’d always been able to. But did she love him as much as he loved her? Even a quarter of the ardency of his love would satisfy.

Aunt Genna was at fault for those ambitions she carried, for encouraging her into an infatuation which would never take root. And father, as well. Had he not aimed so high, his sister would not be mesmerised with the King. She would be his still. Jaime drew in a sharp breath, his chest vibrating painfully with the intake of air. It filled his lungs to bursting point, stretching the tissue until near refusal. If he should close his eyes and count in his mind, when he opened them would he find it had all been a cruel night terror? Jaime did not try. He was not dreaming.

Heavy weight on his shoulders, Jaime knocked on the door, the taps quick and sure, unlike his own person. He heard shuffling from behind the wooden frame, brisk footfalls coming his way, a swish of skirts. And then there she was, wide eyes reminiscent of his staring at him, straight into his soul. He swayed lightly. Cersei seemed neither pleased nor displeased at his presence. “Brother, what brings you here?” The soft voice brushed against the shell of his ears, sweet as wine.

Words stuck to the back of his throat, tongue thickening until he could barely move it. Somehow, though, he managed, even thus impaired, an answer. “I wanted to speak.” There was no flash of understanding dawning upon her face. She stepped to the side, allowing him entrance.

Once he was within she moved further without the chamber, searching the hallway. “You have to be careful, Jaime, coming to visit me like this. We are no longer children, you know.” The words seemed to him cold, as sharp as the kiss of a blade. “Especially now when father is to arrive. He would not be pleased.”

“’Tis not father that worries you,” he let slip without meaning to. Cersei started, closing the door with more vigour than necessary. She whirled around to face him.

“Whatever do you mean by those words?” His twin did not reach for him like she might have in days past. Her steps carried her to a chair. She allowed herself to fall gracefully into it. “Cat got your tongue?” He barely even registered the taunt.

“What do you have in mind, sister? Joining the King on the hunt.” No denial came forth. There was no avoiding it, he decided. Cersei would know he knew at some point. “You shall cause a scandal. That would displease father at an even greater rate.”

She laughed. Jaime could detect no amusement behind the sound. “Not that I can see, brother. Father has been waiting for such an opportunity as this. I shall finally give him what he’s been wishing for.” The hairs on the back of his neck stood at the look upon his sister’s face. “After all these years. ‘Tis enough reason to bring tears to my eyes.”

“He meant for you to be wife of a king, not his mistress,” he found himself protesting. “You’ll be dragging the name of our house through mud, is what you’ll be doing. Have you thought at all about this?”

“Not if I play my cards right, Jaime. You do not know what I know, so I do not expect you might understand. But trust me, I am doing this for all of us.” The lack of concern with which she dismissed him tore at Jaime’s heart. He grimaced. “Such a face you would pull at me in this moment. I wonder at times, do you not wish me happy, brother?”

“I? Not wish you happy?” He chuckled. “Nay, sister mine, I do not wish you happy. Not with someone other than me. Would that suffice, or shall I go on?” Cersei shrugged. He seethed. “You would break every promise you’ve made to me, and for what? Cersei, let us run away.”The proposal was not a new one, just the circumstances. “I will take care of you. There will be no lack in your life.”

Scrunching her nose up at him, Cersei offered her usual blistering refusal. “You jest, I hope. We are not running away, Jaime. Why should we? What have we done wrong? I want what is best for you and me and father. I will not hear much more of this from you.”

“And is this what you think best? Cersei, what if someone knew about us?” If he pushed hard enough, he might make her understand. It was the only chance he had.

“Gods, Jaime, what are you saying?” She jumped from her seat. “No one knows about us. No one can know. Rhaegar would never–“ Cersei froze midstride. “The realm would never look lightly upon it. I will not bear punishment for aught which is not wrong. Nor shall you.”

All doubt fled his mind. “Nay, I will not bear punishment for aught which is not my fault.” His agreement, though strangely phrased seemed to please Cersei. She came to him, holding her arms out invitingly. He stepped within her embrace, the taste of ash making it difficult to swallow. There was naught and no one Cersei prized more than herself. He came a mere third, fourth even, who even knew, behind her ambitions and father’s plans. 

“I knew I could count on you to see these matters clearly.” The satisfaction in her voice turned his stomach over. Jaime forced his own arms around her, barely holding back the urge to crush her spine. He could do it. Cersei was by no means small, but she was still a woman with only half his strength.

When she let go, it was all Jaime could do not to drag himself away as if he’d been singed. “I can see it all now. But sister, what shall you do about your competition? No doubt you too know about Lady Lyanna. And there is the King’s wife.”

Cersei waved her hand. “The Dornish fool is far off in her sand dunes and will likely remain there for a while yet. I’ve heard she plans to stay the year.” Her lips twisted downwards; Jaime wondered if she was thinking about Lyanna Stark. “As for the other one, she is not someone we ought to worry about any longer.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?” He did not sit down despite Cersei’s attempts at hospitality; she was waving him towards a chair as she sat down in her own. “I can tell you with all certainty that theirs is not a transitory attraction.”

The smile which followed his statement held the sharpness of Valyrian steel. “I do not doubt you, brother mine; I have long since had my sight upon that creature. How proudly she strutted about at court. I despise her still for that. But she will never return here.”

“You are very certain of it. Might be she would be willing to return if someone were to call upon her.” Still, his sister shook her head. Jaime had a bad feeling about it. “You never know; the King is courted by many.”

“Fortunately, brother, the departed have yet to make such offers. Poison sees to that very well.” He’d been expecting aught sordid. Might be a tale of hired mercenaries to attempt upon the lady’s life, injure her, ruffle her feathers and make certain she was to afraid to step foot in King’s Landing.

“Poison?” The echoed word flittered about, bouncing off the walls, steeped in disbelief. “Cersei, how in the name of the gods would you even manage that? She is off with that husband of hers.” Father was not involved in it, he reckoned. Nay, Tywin Lannister preferred to crush his enemies himself.

“I have my ways,” she drawled, a new shine to her gaze. Standing to her feet, she moved about, picking up a slip of paper. “Look at this.”

Jaime took it in his hand and read the read the short lines. “I’ll throw this in the fire for you. It would not do to have such words plainly written.” He was surprised she’d not thrown it in herself.

“My gratitude. I would have done it sooner, but I wanted to savour the victory.” He stood, her smile seared in his mind’s eye even as he turned around. “There is no better brother I could have asked for.”

He carefully tore a small piece off the corner and threw it in the fire, crumpling the rest in his palm. The distinctive scent of burning paper filled the chamber. Standing before the fireplace Jaime recalled a gone King’s obsession with licking flames. It turned out fire was not only useful in ridding the realm of enemies but also in hiding secrets. A pity the knowledge he was in possession of would not be given over to the fiery embrace. A small bitter smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He was going to do what had seemed to him impossible just a short time past.

“Jaime, we must not give anyone cause to suspect us,” Cersei spoke, breaking the tranquillity.

“Of course; I shall return to my bedchamber, sister mine. I am tired, I find.” He turned to face her. Visibly relieved, his sister was smiling sweetly at him. “I shall be on duty on the morrow. If you wish it, I shall aid you in whatever manner I can.” He would dig her a wide, deep gaping hole in the earth, enough to house both her and the ego she’d nurtured, and when she fell it, Jaime would rest upon his spade and watch realisation sink in. The slip of paper in his hand burned against the thin flesh of his palm.  

His sister brought her hands together in a familiar motion. “I do love you best of all, Jaime. If only you knew. I love you like I love no other.” In the same manner she loved the King then; Jaime accepted the assertion with a benevolent smile. “I shall see you on the morrow then.”

He nodded. There was on last thing he wished of her; a memento. “May I ask for aught before I leave? I know there shall be no chance of it further on. Give me a kiss, Cersei, to see me through what shall doubtlessly feel an eternity without you.”  

She did not deny him. His twin glided over in skips and springs, locking her arms around his neck in her joy. She pressed her lips to his, angling her head slightly to the side. The weight of her lips on his was both exhilarating and disturbing. His insides twisted in indecision. Jaime kissed her back, keeping his hands behind his back the whole time. If his sister thought it strange, or even noticed it, she offered no comment. The kiss continued until they were both out of breath.

“I shall miss you as well.” Cersei drew away, waving him off. “No leave my gallant knight and keep me close to your heart.”

“Always.” If he’d been any less vengeance-minded, Jaime supposed he might have twisted that necklace she wore around her throat until she was cold and lifeless at his feet. But he wanted far more out of her. Without further words, he made his way into the long, narrow corridor. There were some hours still before he was required to give answer to his King and he had finally made up his mind.

It was not kinslaying as long as he did not touch her. It was not a betrayal if she was the first to abandon him. He had no reason to feel remorseful, nor any cause to feel ashamed at his actions. The heaviness did not lift off of his shoulders though.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The tub rested in the middle of the bedchamber, steam curling in fine streams towards the ceiling beams. Heat suffused every corner, a sweet scent accompanying it. The dried lavender floated atop the water, the deep colour of the tiny flowers laving little room to see the liquid beneath. Tilly fussed around the rim, holding a handful of dried flowers herself.

“I do believe we have more than enough in the tub,” Lyanna offered, eyeing the surface with mild amusement. Once she soaked a few minutes in the water there would be no getting the scent out of her skin or hair. “Come take the child to Posy.”

The servant girl turned on her heels, scattering flowers all about herself with a carless wave. The ones that did not fall she placed back in the urn from which they’d been taken. Tilly took Alys in her arms, rocking the babe back and forth so gently that Lyanna barely noticed even as she kept her attention upon the two. The young girl left after a few moments.

The other servant, belonging to the merchant, helped her out of her garments and led her to the tub, aiding her into mounting over the high edge. The soft cloth beneath her feet felt much like silk. She lowered herself fully within, water sloshing over the rim. The heavy scent of lavender filled her nostrils. She might have done better to choose roses. Alas, there was no changing now. Callused hands touched her shoulders. Lyanna did not jump. She relaxed into the foreign touch and allowed the servant woman to douse her hair. Her fingers pulled and twisted, rubbing wide strips of hair together in an attempt to wash out every particle of dust or dirt which might have clung to it. Lyanna reached out for a bar of soap. The lye bore a strange hue, reminiscent of watered wine, very near orange in colour; an effect of imbuing the concoction with saffron, she’d been told. Its scent was pleasant though thus Lyanna did not hesitate in making good use of it.    

After thoroughly cleansing herself, Lyanna stepped out of the tub and into wide, immaculate sheets. The fire in the heart and the lingering heat from the water made the parting bearable. And there was something to be said about being clean. She smiled softly at the woman helping her. The merchant’s household had treated her kindly. Certainly Lord Arryn’s presence helped matters, but Lyanna was fairly certain she would not have been worse off had she been on her own.

“That would be all,” she said, allowing the other to be on her way, certain other duties awaited her.

“Aye, m’lady,” the female offered, opening the door wide for two of her companions to come in and begin draining the tub. A third female stepped within the bedchamber, carrying in her arms a simple kirtle. The nondescript grey colour spoke of its quality. But it was sturdy cloth and warm besides. Why would she complain at such?

The kirtle was arranged upon the bed and Lyanna saw the servant brought a shift as well. She dressed slowly, without the woman’s help, declining all aid. “I remember well enough how to put one of these on from the days of my girlhood.” Fashion had evolved somewhat since those times, resulting in intricate lacing patterns which required two sets of hands to manage.

Once her room had been emptied of both water and tub, Lyanna was not surprised to see the infamous acolyte of her dreams standing at the chamber’s door. “My lady, I trust you are feeling better.”

“I am much more myself on this day,” she acknowledged. “It was why I wished to speak to you in the first place.” The man gave a short nod. “Pray, come within so we may sit. My feet still do not thank me for keeping them stretched long.” She’d been told that it was best to begin with daily walks about the bedchamber until there was no more discomfort to her step. Having no intention to cripple herself, she was quick to take to such advice.

“It will come in due time,” he assured her, fully penetrating her private space in one wide step. Brynden sat down upon a stool and she mimicked his movement, settling herself upon the bed. “You wished to speak about the other child.”

“Among other matters,” she confirmed. “Was there aught which would tell one how it died?” Its twin had survived, after all. “Could the child have been saved?”

“I have said this before, my lady, but the advanced state of decay suggests it died some time past. As for the cause, I cannot tell for certain. You see, its development stopped in a stage when not even organs are distinguished clearly among themselves.”

“Naught could have been done then.” It was as much of an answer as she was ever going to receive. “I find this truly strange. I’ve heard it said twins share a special bond.”

“Certainly they do. But ‘tis not that uncommon a thing for one to be born alive and the other not. Unexpected, I suppose. I regret my inability to give proper answer.” He sounded sincere.

“Even the great Bloodraven has yet to decipher the greater mysteries. I find that oddly comforting.” A half-smile was her reply. “Will she feel this absence of her sibling? Will she know?” 

“’Tis not likely. How well could she have come to know his presence in the first place? Fret not, my lady, your daughter will remain ignorant of this matter unless she is told directly.” Aught which Lyanna had no plans of doing. Might be when Alys was older. “I perceive this is not the end of our conversation.”

“Right you are. Now that I am satisfied on account of my daughter, I must know about my son and the nature of your bond with him.” A mother could not be expected to be left in the dark.  

“I do believe I have courted this disaster myself,” he quipped. “Very well, my lady, where should I begin?” He drummed his fingers against his knee as if impatient. The man who had all the time in the world of all people acted as if his horses could not be reined in. She would have laughed under any other circumstances.

“Why is it that you chose my son?” The North was full of boys Jon’s age, most of them with the blood of the First Men running through their veins. Why should her son be given the dubious distinction of this being’s interest?

“There is a tale carried down through generations of Targaryens. ‘Tis said that Daenys the Dreamer, you’ve heard of her, my lady, I am certain,” he paused waiting for her nod, “at some point during her girlhood prophesised that a hero would be born to the dragon’s line, the Prince that was promised, as it were, a child whose song of ice and fire will see the world through many a peril.”

He was not saying what she thought he was saying. At the very least Lyanna begged the gods he was not. “My son belongs to the house of the stag. What does he have to do with dragons and their line?”

The Bloodraven tsked, white teeth flashing. “You know better, my lady, than to lie to me. Your son carries within him two powerful bloodlines. And who is to say the prince must truly be a Prince in title? The first knights were only called thusly, were they not?”

“What you speak is treason, as certain as the sun rises in the east. If my son should ever assume the mantle which you think to place upon him, he would be struck down.” Rhaegar had a firstborn. Much as he loved her, and much as he seemed to care about their son, Jon was not his heir. To think otherwise was to condemn him.

“Treason? How can the truth be treason? I know well the King thinks ‘tis his firstborn who was born to the song, but men have been wrong before. And when time for proof comes, naught will stand in Jon’s way. The child will fulfil his destiny.” These grand plans of his would never come to pass. Lyanna blinked slowly. “You do not believe me. That is just as well, my lady. Heroes are meant to save, not to gain the trust of those around them.”

What a frightening thing to say. Lyanna pursed her lips. “Jon might yet surprise you. As you said yourself, humans have been wrong before.”

“Aye, my lady, but I have long since stopped being human. I am no more wrong than the position of the sun upon the skies. To simply say what is can never be wrong.” It fell to utter madmen to believe their own inventions. “Disbelief is no cure.”

“Neither is blind belief. I have known others who claim to see into the uncertain future. But if they speak the truth, is it not the most tragic tale of all?” He raised one eyebrow at her. “If by chance you speak the truth, and the future is set in stone, then what choice is there for us? Why do we live? Simply to play our parts in this mummer’s show?”   

“A very malleable stone, but still stone,” Brynden assured her. “To go against it would have unspeakable consequences. You do not wish to encourage your son upon such a path. Not for yourself and not for the realm, my lady. Think well upon these words of mine.”

“You believe I would put the realm before my own child?”  Marked by disbelief, her words felt rather like pebbles digging into the heels of a giant. “I do not much care for aught outside the wellbeing of those I love. As for fate, I am willing to go against it.”

“As you will,” the seer allowed, bringing his hand together in one fluid motion. He was acceding at such a pace as to leave Lyanna momentarily stunned. “If my lady so wills, than I shan’t stand against this ill-conceived notion.”

“Why? Because you can see the end of it?” Her skin crawled at the very thought. Was she aught more than a drop in the ocean?

“Partly,” the Bloodraven answered. “I am content to allow what is to come to remain in great secrecy. We shall speak of this again, when ‘tis all clearer.” For a few moments he declined to leave his seat, eyes misting over. Lyanna wondered what it was he saw. But she did not question. Whatever it was, ‘twas no concern of hers. His attention snapped back to her. “Is there aught else, my lady?”

“If I asked it of you to leave my son alone, would you do it?” The shake of his head failed to take her by surprise. The reason behind it, however, gained vastly different proportions.

“I am not the only one aware of your son.” The blood was slowly draining from her cheeks. “This world houses a host of entities, and not all of them wish to aid as I do. Your son needs me still, even if you disagree, my lady.” Lyanna clenched her teeth to mask the frustration his words produced.

“Do not attempt to make as if I do not wish what is best for my child.” She stood, signalling that their interview was at an end. Might be once she had regained her calm, Lyanna would delve deeper into these possibilities he spoke of. “You may be on your way.”

He sighed. “Wanting what is best and knowing what is best are two separate matters, my lady. “

“Acolyte, you may depart,” she insisted steeling herself against a potential confrontation.

 

But she needn’t have. With a shrug, the man stood as well and made for the door, not offering aught else for her to mull on. Lyanna released a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding, shoulders slumping.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jon winced lightly at the strength the Princess put behind her hold. Rhaenys had never held his hand quite like that and he attributed the sudden change to grief rather than conscious decision. Nonetheless, her wide hand crushed his fingers in an iron grip, the digits smarting as blood circulation was impaired. He wishes there was aught he could say to her. But what did one say to someone whose mother was no longer of this world?

Instead of speaking, he remained quietly at her side. He daren’t approach Aegon whose reaction upon hearing the news was to fall into a tantrum the likes of which Jon had never witnessed before. It only made him wonder if the other boy did not know that the Stranger never gave back what it took. No matter how long and loud one screamed, those who had gone were forever lost. Jon shook his head lightly, eyeing the Prince. He had grabbed onto the hem of his mother’s skirts and was dragging his feet in the direction her body was being moved. His uncle had insisted upon carrying the corpse himself and would not allow even the Queen’s lady-in-waiting to get too close.

The sole person who remained somewhat open to communication was the older man’s companion. She’d been the one to ask Jon if he wanted for aught or if he had requests. It was somewhat natural he perceived, for the brother of the Queen had to take care of his sister and the rest of the ship’s population was in deep mourning.

But it all seemed such a strange thing to Jon. The Queen hadn’t been very ill. She’d shown so little sign of it; death looked to harsh an outcome for a simple affliction. And even more interesting, no one else had been affected. The first night after the woman’s untimely demise, Jon had attempted to contact Brynden and ask him if there was aught to be done. How he loathed seeing his closest companions in pain. But the man hadn’t answered any summons and his sleep had been uninterrupted. Jon had given up, naturally, after a further attempt the following morning which resulted in a dismal failure. It seemed he would have to leave matters in the hands of the gods. Thus he had settled on being close to Rhaenys and Aegon, hoping his presence would work towards presenting them with at least some comfort.

It was difficult to tell whether he had succeeded or not, for the Queen’s children were too caught up in their tears to say much. And Jon needn’t words from them at any rate. Renly too had needed time to grieve his mother when they’d found her in the caves. When he was more himself his uncle had offered gratitude. Thus Jon squeezed the girl’s hand back weakly, shy of causing her discomfort or drawing her out of the state she’d fallen in. Yet he’d feared for naught; Rhaenys acknowledged him only by mirroring his action.      

Once on solid ground, Jon could make out two lumbering wheelhouses. They bore a crest he’d seen before. It seemed that the Queen’s kin had sent for them an escort. An unfamiliar man stepped out to the front to greet the Prince. They exchanged what looked to be a most serious dialogue. The stranger’s eyes fell upon the prone form of the Queen. His lips moved in a gasp. Jon’s attention was stolen away from the two as another hand gripped his free one.

He looked up to see the forlorn face of the Dornishwoman bent towards him. “We shall make for Sunspear,” she told, ostensibly, the both of them. “It shall be somewhat crammed with so many souls all in one wheelhouse, but circumstances are as such.” Jon simply nodded. He had suspected that one of the wheelhouses would be used solely for the Queen. “There is a nice place where we may rest for a little while until all preparations have been made.”

Doubtlessly she had orders from the Prince, for the woman left them after to convince Aegon to let go of his mother’s skirts. The boy protested heartily, moving back and forth, making the task of forcing his fingers to unclench a difficult one. In the end his uncle cut in, within a few words convincing the child of the wisdom of leaving the task of caring for the deceased Queen to him and others who could do it. Sullen and dismayed, Aegon returned to him and Rhaenys.

“This is not fair,” he complained, eyes welling up with fresh tears. His sister merely took him by the hand. Jon felt rather strange, as if he was imposing upon aught which was meant to be a private moment. Thus he did his best to remain a shadow only.

A small number of men walked towards them from the direction of the wheelhouses. All bore arms and looked to have been trained in their wielding. Words were exchanged. Jon paid them no mind. These were guards, meant to ensure their safety.

One of them stepped before the small group with the Prince’s companion in tow. Jon remained linked to the other two children, while behind them the wetnurse carried a slumbering infant. Poor Daeron, he was the only one confused by all the commotion and the sole soul to which no explanation could be given so he might understand it. And he did not seem to instinctively know aught was amiss. The babe ate and slept as well as it always had; the loss of its mother not registering in any manner. But then again why should he; his situation had not changed all that much.

Jon held back a small sigh of confusion as they approached a large, wide open gate. Beyond it he could make a path and a generously sized-building, which was not imposing despite its width. The style her perceived had been meant to put at ease, not otherwise. The only question was what they were doing in such a place.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Viserys shushed his accomplice once more, peeking around the corner. “I told you there’d be no one about at this hour,” he said at long last after a thorough inspection of the hallway. Renly shrugged, his face retaining the strained notes of worry even as he followed the Prince.

“If someone should catch us, Your Grace, there will be trouble. My brother has a heavy hand.” Viserys rolled his eyes. He’d seen Stannis Baratheon about. The only heavy thing that man carried was his head. Stubborn creature that he was, for whatever reason saw fit to remain within the Red Keep even when he was not needed.

“No one shall catch us if you do as I say.” They were not doing aught wrong. Viserys waved hi hand in a commanding manner and Renly followed with a pout. The two of them made their way through the well-lit corridor to the targeted chamber.

From somewhere ahead scratching noises could be heard. Viserys turned his head towards his companion. “That’s where the dragons are,” he informed the younger boy most solemnly. “Brother said they were not to step without in his absence. I think he fears they might attack a body.”

“Would they?” Renly questioned, voice strangely uneven. His eyes darted towards the door and then to Viserys. A couple more times his sight travelled the same road before he pressed himself into the wall, keeping on the far side as they passed the locked door.

“Both are well fed,” he hurried to assure the other. If Renly thought himself in danger of the two beasts he would likely flee back to his bedchamber and lock the door. That would leave Viserys without aid. “Not that it carries much weight. They are not getting out until brother returns. You needn’t worry so.”

“Worried?” Renly protested. “I worry not; I fear. Now they are small, yet dragons grow.”

That was not untrue. But dragons took long to grow. They would likely only reach the size of the dragons of old when Viserys was his brother’s age. That was still a long time off. “Hush. And never you mind the dragons. They don’t concern you.”

Whether he agreed or not, Viserys was unable to make out as a sharp sound caught them both by surprise. Without a second thought, both flattened themselves to the wall and held their breath as clanging filled the corridor. Loud dragging noises followed, accompanied by cries. It took a few moments to locate the source of the commotion. But in the end they both agreed it must have come from the locked chamber.

“Naught we can do about that,” Viserys shrugged, almost enjoying the look on Renly’s face. It was a mixture of horror and relief. “Bets we continue.” The other nodded. Reminding him one last time that silence was essential, Viserys nodded his head towards another set of doors. His companion began moving; the ease of his steps carrying him swiftly towards the destination to Viserys’ eternal relief.

The doors at the end of the hallway had been barred shut, the wooden rod slid firmly in place. It was more a sign that the King was not in residence and the chambers were not used rather than any deterrent. Viserys moved to the right as Renly stepped to the left. They took hold of the rod’s end, lifting it out of the way. Carefully, the wood was rested against the wall.

They stood in the hallway in silence, staring at their work. Viserys forced his gaze towards Renly. “We should enter before anyone comes along.”

“We should,” his partner in crime agreed.

They opened only one of the doors, cracking it just wide enough to slide within. Viserys had, of course, visited the connected chambers a number of times. During his father’s lifetime he’d even been allowed at times to play in the antechamber as long as he avoided being noisy. Mother had never liked that and would just as often come searching for him and dragging him away to her own chambers. Since his father’s demise, however, Viserys had not had cause to come within these rooms.

Familiar drapes billowed lightly, the whooshing noise unnerving. Someone had forgotten to close the shutters. The door whined softly as it was closed behind them. Another set of door stood just ahead, bathed in dim light coming from without.

He turned towards Renly. “We’ll need a torch.” The lancet had likely been forgotten by mistake. Within the King’s bedchamber there would be no such fortunate error awaiting.

 “I’ll take one from without,” the younger child offered, heading towards the doors. He opened the same one through which they’d entered and scurried into the hallway. Through the crack Viserys could see him stretching towards the prize, rising on his tiptoes. Fingers wrapped around the wood handle and the light was stolen from its place. Renly returned with a triumphant smile.

Moving towards one of the narrow benches seated along the walls, Viserys knelt and began searching the ground. Behind one of the feet he found what he was looking for. He picked it up and allowed Renly to inspect it as well. “A ring?”

“Father’s old signet ring. From before he took the throne.” The ring was solid gold, plaited tickly, decorated with tiny rubies in the shape of a three-headed dragon. The tail was missing. Viserys’ eyes lingered upon the defect. What a sound scolding he’d received for knocking the stones out. Father had placed the ring behind the bench after, telling Viserys to take it out only when he was prepared to bring it to its former glory. Viserys still knew naught of gold crafting. But he had aught better for his father.

“Do we have need of it?” Renly asked after a moment, helping Viserys up.

“I have need of it,” he clarified with a roll of the shoulder. As long as he kept it upon his person, it almost felt as if father was close by, protecting him. “Come, let us find the book.”

The second set of doors bore no bar. That was mostly because these doors could only be locked from within. During his father’s reign the royal bedchamber had not been open to anyone other than himself. Viserys pushed his whole weight upon one of the doors. It gave way, allowing both entrance.

Renly gasped softly. “It’s pitch black in there.”

Viserys shrugged at that. “You have the torch,” he reminded the other boy. All they had to do now was find the tome. “And ‘tis just a bit of darkness.”

Despite his obvious reluctance, Renly lifted the torch higher. They moved around the chamber, one ostensibly looking for a book, the other looking ostensibly as if he would like to take off. Nevertheless, having already put stock into the other boy’s word, Viserys did not expect that Renly would try abandoning him. That and the fact that if he was discovered wandering about the hallways there would be some explaining to do.

“Look there,” Renly pointed to a tall self. “Might be the book is among those.” There were several volumes stacked neatly together. Still, neither was any thicker than two fingers held up together. Viserys shook his head in response.

“I’ve seen the tome. It’s this big.” He held his thumb and pointer wide apart in demonstration. “And he wouldn’t place it there. Those are books of laws. Father never kept them here, but mother says brother has been reviewing them so they’ll be here for some time.” Why his mother knew such a thing, Viserys could not tell. She’d never seemed interested.

“Books of laws?” Renly repeated. “The King may pass any law he wishes. What need does he have of them?”

“So other people know. Lords apply these laws on their lands. Didn’t your brother do that?” Viserys walked past the self and to a small cabinet. He opened the latch and looked within. There were several thick volumes within. Still, he did not reach for any as Renly spoke, answering his question.

“Brother was rarely home. The maester took care of that and sometimes my good-sister.” Renly stepped closer. He lowered the torch for better visibility. “I’ve never seen them use a book of laws though.”

“They must have been going by the King’s law though,” Viserys insisted. “Otherwise the smallfolk would have sent someone to court. A merchant might be. They know the King’s law fairly well.” He smiled and returned to sifting through the books.

Pulling the first out, he opened it gingerly, looking upon the first page. The wide script which greeted his eyes told him very little. The words felt familiar as he read them out loud, but not one of them sounded as if they spoke of dragons. He set it aside and took hold of the second one. This one spoke of laws once more and seemed to be very old; even the ink had faded, making the words difficult to decipher. It had to be the remaining tome.   

The third volume shared the leather covering of its brethren. Viserys recognised the house seal seared into the smooth surface. He thumbed through the first pages, but he had no true need to, for from the very first drawings he recognised dragon eggs and dragon babes. The corrupted Valyrian filling the pages gave him pause. He’d never been one to shy away from the difficult task of understanding the foreign tongue, yet this form of Valyrian seemed to him a test of worthiness, which worth should have been clear from the very beginning. “Found it,” he told Renly, leaning to the side to allow the other a good look.

“And you understand it?” Renly, not unlike other members of great noble houses could decipher a few phrases of High Valyrian. Yet as custom would have it, naught was ever needed other than those few phrases; as such his companion had long ago stopped learning.

“Some of it.” He pointed out a line, written in thick curving lines, “This here looks a lot like ‘to hatch’ in continuous form. And this sounds a lot like ‘eggs’, but it’s written differently. And the last is–“

“Dragon. That’s dragon,” Renly spoke over him. “I know that one.”

“Of a dragon,” Viserys corrected lightly. “’Tis just what we were looking for. Now hold the light and let me read.” The laborious task was accomplished with a little patience, which Viserys had been cultivating for a few days. He dragged his way through the first few lines, mind working swiftly to find High Valyrian equivalents to what he read. Even with the bets of his knowledge pushed to the forefront, he only managed to understand half of what he read, the other half supplied by wild imagination and a drop of good-fortune. Nevertheless, Viserys was more than pleased with his progress.

Renly mouthed the handful of words he understood, but was not keen on offering more than a passing interest regarding the hatching of eggs. “Have you learned what is needful?”

“Very near. I shall know as soon as you stop distracting me,” he snapped, his attention slipping away from a rather ominous looking word which contained a root rather similar to the words ‘sacrifice’. He continued the perusal until he reached the end of the page’s first half. There was further scribbling to be deciphered but the hand seemed to have changed and the dialect itself suffered transformation, although the similarities remained striking. Why hadn’t his brother thought to have the pages written in the plain tongue?

Further down the page the writing had begun to fade, some of the letters taking on strange shapes. Yet Viserys had understood just enough to give him an idea of how he should go about waking his own dragon. “I am done,” he told the other, shoving the tome back in place. The other two were forced atop it and the door was swiftly closed, leaving naught for the naked eye to see.   

The eggs he knew where his brother kept, thus he merely made sure the latch showed no signs of tampering before shifting his attention towards the neat row of dragon eggs. Renly shined his torch down upon them, inspecting the stone-like lumps. “What now, Your Grace?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) ABBBAABBABAABAA AAABBABAAAAABAABAABA BAABBABBBA BAABBABBBABABAAAAABAAABBB AABABABBBABAAABAABAABABABAABAABAAAB AAAAAABBABAAABB BABBAAABBBAABAAABBAB AABABABBBABAAABAABAABABABAABAABAAAB ABAAABAABA BAAABAABAAAAAAAAAABAAABBBAABAAAAABB ABAAABAABB AAABABAAABBABAAABBAAAAAABABABBAABAABAABA ABAAAABBABBAABBABBBA AAAAA BAABBAABBBABBBABABAABAABAAAAAAABBABAAABB ABBBBABAAAAABAAAAABAAABAABAABA BABBAAABBBABAAAAAABAAABBB BAABAAAABAAAAAABAABBBAABBAABAABAAAB AAAAAABABBABABB ABBBABABABAABAABAAAB 
> 
> Blood is red, desolation is blue, Dark Souls is so hard, this apology was too. Along with the chapter itself. So I've been gaming like crazy and not doing what I was supposed to do. Of course I got owned and decided to do this instead until I gather the courage to join the fray once again. 
> 
> That being said, I hope you've enjoyed the chapter. And 'ta until next time.


	20. Line Of Fire

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sansa whined softly, deep blue eyes welling with unspent tears as she gnawed upon a small, plump thumb. A little bit of drool had dribbled down her chin, the wet trail glistening. Brandon could not be certain she cried because of some sort of discomfort or as an effect of the earlier, rather loud spat, she’d overheard. Nevertheless, he’d broken with Catelyn to pick up his daughter. “I am telling you now, lady wife, you shan’t challenge me on this. My mind has been made up.”

But his young wife rewarded that with a snort of disbelief. “I would not have cared had you taken her somewhere and done as you would. But this is my home, and such behaviour is detestable. I shan’t have it. Do you hear me?” Her voice had levelled his, quietening on account of the infant, but the abrasive note in those words stabbed at him still.

Brandon raised his head from the red-faced child to gaze at his wife. “You will say not one thing of this. Nor think upon it. Keep out of matters which do not concern you.” He did not mean to shame her and in truth had held back from fulfilling his desire on account of her more than once. But she did not want a husband, she wanted a paragon. “Lady Hawys and her companion shall remain here for as long as I see fit.”

Lips thinning into a straight line, Catelyn sat down in a chair, clearly not intending to allow him some time with his daughter. He sighed softly and rubbed a hand over his face, feeling a steady tug upon the collar of his tunic. When he glanced to Sansa he saw her fist had taken hold of the garment and tugged upon it urgently, the watery blue of her eyes gaining depth as her mouth shaped itself into an oval, releasing a piercing shriek. The child bust into tears, fussing in his arms fit to wake the dead. He cursed low under his breath and tried to shift his hold, but that pleased her none. Helplessly he glanced towards his wife who’d risen to her feet and walked to him.

“’Tis her gums. She’s teething,” she explained, as if that would make his daughter’s weeping less heart wrenching. But Catelyn did not lose any time in gripping the babe to her chest and poking the tip of her finger inside her mouth, rubbing the red, inflamed-looking gums while she cooed. “The maester says she is making good progress and that soon her first tooth shall be out fully. Robb was not half as sensitive.“

That was true. His son had cried for a great many things as a babe, yet teething was not one of them. “Can she be given naught for the pain?”

Catelyn shook her head. “Nay. ‘Tis all too strong for one as small as she. The only choice is to weather it, I fear.”

Sansa had calmed somewhat in her mother’s arms and was gurgling softly, as if trying to chip in on the conversation. But then, as she watched the red drain from her cheeks, Brandon got an idea. “Lady wife, hold her just like for a few moments. I shall return shortly.”

As good as his word, he left a confused Catelyn behind to make his way to the kitchens. The unusual sight of the heir poking about the area roused more than a tad on interest, yet he encountered little more than compliance when he ordered that ice be brought to him. He crushed it himself in a clean strip of cloth, which he tied in a tight bundle. With nary a word to quell the interest of his serfs, Brandon hurried back up the stairs to the nursery to find Catelyn pacing the length of the chamber, their daughter in her arms. She gave him a suspicious look when she saw the fist-sized bundle.

“What is that?” Her question made him aware that his fingers had started numbing somewhat.

“For her gums,” he explained, holding one arm out to receive the burden of the infant. Sansa stretched out like a feline, yawning. She eyed the object in his hand with some interest and even held her hand out to touch it. Brandon smiled down at her. “Aye, ‘tis for you, my love.” She babbled a reply and bit straight into the cloth as soon as it was in front of her face.

Small sounds of frustration left her when she did not manage to tear even a bit of it away. Nonetheless, she continued in her quest for victory, gnawing upon the slowly-melting ice. “How is that, sweetling? Any good?”

Of course he did not expect an actual answer from the babe. ‘Twas enough for him when her eyes flickered to him. She held his gaze for a few moments before cooing softly. Counting that as success, Brandon rocked her gently, searching his mind for aught which to speak to her of. “Father would have returned much sooner, had he known you had such need of him.”

His wife let out a sound of amusement. It did not seem to him that she mocked. “If it were up to her, you would not have left in the first place. Do you know, I fear at times that she will have the fiercest temper. Robb was much milder.”

Robb was very much attached to his mother. “She’ll be mild as well. As a lamb; once she’s had her sleep,” he offered. Babes were not his domain of expertise, but even he knew that pain made them fussy and tired. “Though I would be lying if I said I did not enjoy my fierce she-wolf with a fine temper.”

“Do not encourage her, husband. She’ll be unmanageable by the time she can crawl.” Catelyn rested in her seat once more, but this time she was smiling. It seemed that for the moment she was pleased with companionable silence. Brandon breathed out in relief.     

Placed in her crib after she’d fallen asleep, Sansa was left in the nursery with the just-returned wetnurse and her older brother, who had returned from his play with a triumphant smile. Robb had taken just enough time out of his important conversation with the minder to wish a good night to him and Catelyn, enduring his mother’s kisses with a light grimace.

“You will spoil him, lady wife,” Brandon warned when they stood in the hallway. “Boys are not meant for such.”

“He is still a babe,” she contradicted. “As for spoiling him, one of us should, husband. But you seem too caught up in whatever scheme you have going with Lady Hawys and that servant of her. Do you know I found her near the crypts? There is aught wrong with her and that bundle. I do not feel safe.”

Brandon gave her a long look. “Guthrune is no more dangerous than a firefly.” That was a lie, but ‘twas better to have Catelyn somewhat at ease rather than have her trying to provoke the woman. “What was she doing near the crypts?”

“I know now, Brandon. She certainly told me naught.” A shiver shook her visibly. “At the very least keep her away from the nursery, if you would have her here. The Seven only know what she’ll drag from without and make out children sick. Whatever was Lady Hawys thinking when she took on such a servant?”

“To that I’ve no answer,” he replied simply, placing an arm around her. “You look as if you could catch your death, lady wife?” Despite a vigorous strand of protests, he picked her up with ease. “No more of that. The last thing I need is for you to collapse. Has anyone ever told you, lady wife, you worry too much.”

“Only when I am given reason to,” she murmured in reply, huddling closer. Brandon felt a telltale tingle creep along his spine. Her fingers kneaded at the base of his skull. “Only when I am give reason.” The hushed repetition made his hairs stand on end. He’d half expected it, but still, Brandon fund himself momentarily awed.

“’Tis to be hoped then that those who give such reason stop.” For what did she worry? The keep? Her future? Surely she did not think her path unsafe. But might be she did. “You needn’t borrow trouble. All is well.”           

“All shall be well,” she agreed, her touch becoming firmer. Brandon did not suppose he could refuse. And in truth he did not wish it either. “I find myself somewhat desirous of a mattress, husband.”

“A mattress, you say? Why lady wife, I do believe you mean for us to repair to bed.” She eyes one of the doors shyly and gave a soft, nearly imperceptible nod. “How could I refuse?” Brandon chuckled. The red flush of her cheeks was indicator enough of enthusiasm as far as he was concerned.

Only, reaching the bedchamber proved a more arduous task than either of them had anticipated.

From somewhere within the shadows, the keep’s maester broke out, stepping into their path. Brandon, while not allowing Catelyn down, could feel the easiness slipping through his fingers, bleeding away into a puddle at his feet. “Maester Luwin,” he said, more to quash the silence than to express shock at the untimely and rather inconvenient arrival of the man.

“Ser, my lady,” he greeted them in turn, making a slow motion with his hand. “There is word from your sister.” That cooled any ardour Brandon might have felt at the moment. He gently placed Catelyn on her feet, the loss very near tangible. But his lady wife remained at his side.

“How is my good-sister? I’ve barely heard from her these turns past.” She moved slightly closer to the man, a frown upon her face.

“I am afraid the news in not of the best kind. It seems that Lady Lyanna has experienced a rather trying time. Ser, if you would, I will have word in the solar.” That had been entirely unexpected, but Brandon surmised nonetheless that the news was besides of bad sort, rather delicate in nature.

“Lady wife, you must be tired,” he dismissed Catelyn with a determined glance. The woman offered but a flimsy protest and an unspoken demand that she be told what was going on to which he agreed silently. Then she turned upon her heel and marched down the corridor, making for the stairs.

The maester did not speak a word more until they stood in father’s solar, amid neatly stacked scrolls and the familiar scent of ink. There the man retrieved from the folds of his sleeve a number of small strips of paper. “There are three missives, ser. One from Ser Elbert Arryn, one from Lord Arryn and the other a note addressed to you lord father specifically from an acolyte of King’s Landing.” The man gave up only the first two. The third he kept in his hand, nodding towards Brandon.

He read Elbert’s chicken-scrawl with some difficulty, but understood enough of it to piece together the necessary knowledge. Lord Arryn’s straight hand was easier on the eye. From what the man told, his sister was safe for the moment, and would reside in his keep until she was retrieved. “Aught is missing, maester. Why would my sister be travelling with Elbert Arryn in the first place?”

He knew Elbert well enough to be aware that he would not have accompanied Lyanna unless it was necessary. Which brought about the question of his sister’s husband. Surely Ser Rosby trusted his men to see him through the journey without Arryn’s involvement. “Wait a while, maester. I shall write to father as well and you may send the messages together.”

“Aye, ser.” Luwin busied himself with a few scrolls until Brandon wrote his message, asking for some manner of explanation. After he was done, the man said the following, “There is one more bit of news neither Ser Arryn nor his lord make mention of. Your sister, she gave birth to a child.”   

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Renly pulled Viserys out of the way and dragged him under the bed, holding a finger to his lips. He pointed out towards a scuttling lump upon the ground. The harsh breathing of his companion only momentarily distracted him from the newborn creature.

“Do you think anyone heard?” the Prince questioned, clutching the signet ring between his fingers as their new companion tested its legs. It suddenly fell over, rolling onto its back, the bony tail whipping through the blackness with a slight whoosh.

“Nay,” Renly answered, pushing himself further away. “It might hunger.” They’d not brought meat along. In fact, neither one had thought about meat, but at the moment it was all Renly could picture in his head, fat, juicy, red meat. He shuddered. It was only him and the Prince in the chamber.

A low whine came from the creature. It shuffled about, having managed to find its legs. Snout pressed against what had once been pristine carpets, the dragonling croaked, tongue lashing out at the few droplets of blood it found. Renly gulped softly.    

“It cannot breathe fire yet,” the other boy assured him. A snorting sound came from the beast. “If we could catch him,” the Prince trailed off. “I wonder if it bites hard.”

In truth, Renly was even less desirous to discover that than he was to be stung by a thousand bees. “Might be ‘towuld be better to claim no knowledge of it. The dragon refuses to listen. Your Grace, let us escape and lock him here.”

It was most unexpected. He supposed dragons were strange creatures, but Renly had not expected the one upon the ground to lash out as it had. Never had he seem such a struggle as when Viserys had picked the mite up. He shuddered to think of those claws coming up towards his face. The Prince was lucky he’d escaped only with that scratch upon his chin.

“Don’t be daft, Renly. It would just starve to death if we locked it away. We need to catch it and take it to the other two. Might be ‘twill listen to them.” That plan sounded as well put together as his first one had been. Renly grimaced and was about the argue the point when the Prince dashed from his place with a low whistle of air-intake.

The dragon let out a screech-like sound and jumped up. Even with its wings extended it only managed to crash upon the soft ground, wings flapping helplessly. Viserys motioned him out as well and bent to pick up the little monster, this time pressing the clawed limb firmly against his torso. A wail cam from the babe. “There, there,” His Grace soothed. “We won’t harm you.”

Nay, they would not. But it, on the other hand, would be very pleased to harm them, Renly reckoned, coming out as well. The dragon struggled against the other’s hold, its tail swishing violently about, but the Prince did not seem to care. In fact, he took it for permission to proceed.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

The light jolt produced a sharp pain in his side. Jon wanted to turn and see what had caused it, but all his eyes could make out was glittering scales and Pryjatis rubbing the lengths of its back against the cool stones with a low hiss. It occurred to him not a moment later that he’d somehow wounded up in his once-companion’s dreams might be. But nay, as he moved a leg and felt the solid ground beneath, his mind told him ‘twas no dream.

Jon wiggled his body until the pain came back. It had migrated lower, like a twinge of awareness when one recovered the function of limbs after a long time in which they’d been idle. Soft growls emitted from his tightly clenched jaws. Aught was not as it should be. The feeling gave him to believe ‘twas no great danger, but still the tension swelled uninterrupted. Darys was not afeared as far as Jon could tell, but the restless manner in which the wings moved was more than enough to convince him he needed  to listen.

Thus, without second thought, he settled into the new skin and sought out the dragon’s thoughts. It took some time until he located the reptile deep within the bowels of its consciousness, flittering about with no more patience than the outward covering. Once it sensed Jon, Darys leaped upon him, assaulting his with a flurry of images which flowed and twisted before him in dizzying motions. Putting it all into words was the most difficult part. A tiny primal part of him understood each note of trepidation, each croak from the creature, yet he could not make out the full meaning; not until he came upon a familiar presence. Jon could feel his eyes, or rather Darys’ widen.

Pryjatis was no longer fooling around. The other dragon had approached him and was lying in wait, head upon its paws, for a signal of sorts. They had to get out. As soon as the door opened, they had to leap past the servant bringing food and fly away. Jon arched his back and stretched out his wings.

Footsteps could be heard from without. Pryjatis cocked its head to the side in a questioning motion. He merely croaked in answer, hoping beyond hope that the beast understood. There was not a moment to lose.

A low groan emitted from the door as it eased open.         

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rickard cursed softly under his breath as the light flickered in his line of sight. He looked upon the acolyte’s stark-white face with some satisfaction and snatched away from his outstretched hand the bit of paper. It took a couple of heartbeats to make sense of the scrawl, mainly because the fog of sleep had yet to disperse. But then the work sank in.

A rap on the door distracted him before he could give orders. A servant poked in his head. “The dragons, my lord; they are escaped.”

And thus he knew the gods were smiling down upon him. “Attempt to retrieve them. We must let the king know immediately.”     

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alys slept soundly in the fur-lined wicker basket, not a sound leaving her small pink mouth. Lyanna held the object protectively in her lap, thankful that the road was neat for the most part. “M’lady, ‘tis most boring,” Tilly complained softly, her voice quivering. Indeed the girl had been most disappointed when it was time to leave the merchant’s home and Lyanna suspected she’d had rather more time than was advisable to her own ends.

“Come now, Tilly. ‘Tis not half as long as before that we have to sit in here.” She considered her options for a few moments, then went with the path of least resistance, and the most satisfying one as well. “We could always tell some tales to ease the journey.”

Posy, who had until that point been entirely caught up in her stitching, perked up at those words. “A story would be a most welcome thing,” she partook in the conversation. “And if m’lady should be so inclined to allow, I have a perfect story to begin with.”

Agreeing quickly to the proposal, Lyanna leaned slightly against her pillows and waited for the woman to begin. Posy did not disappoint. She cleared her throat and straightened herself, putting her work next to her. “If it please m’lady, I have a tale of a young innocent caught in the grasp of a great misfortune.” She waited for all attention to be on her. “In a mountain village,” the woman began, sombre voice at odds with her florid face, “there lived a young thing, pleased with all she saw and gay of nature. It never crossed her mind to doubt the intentions of any. Easily taken with those around her, ‘twould make no one wonder when she fell head over ears for the apprentice of the smith.” There she stopped to wipe her hands on her skirts. “This apprentice was a fine fellow to look upon. Tall as a tree, with great wide shoulders and a crooked smile so easy to look upon. And our poor girl stood little chance before his charm; she had, you see, a plain face and a heart too soon made glad.”

A recipe for disaster if Lyanna had ever heard one. She was more or less certain of where the story was headed. The woman went on. “Lover she called this man with an easy heart until the day her moon blood failed to flow and her belly swole. With much grief she went to him and told of her misfortune. The apprentice took her in his arms and stroked her hair, promising to her that they would run together into the night and find a septon to wed them.”

“I do not believe him for a moment,” Tilly cut in crossing her arms over her chest. “He sounds like a dishonest man.”

“And you would be right not to,” Posy agreed. “But our plain-faced child believed him. Despite that she had seen the smith had a daughter of his own upon whom she’d seen her lover’s eyes. A pretty maiden was she and with a generous dowry beside. Still, the girl believed in her lover. Or she believed she believed in him enough to allow that they would meet at the edge of the forest come nightfall and run away together.”

Posy sighed and shifted in her seat. “One saving grace the girl had. She arrived at the edge of the forest before her lover, with only a small satchel in hand. Seeing him absent, it came to her that she should climb one of the trees, to see him better when he arrived. And climb she did.”

One of the wheels caught into a rut, sending the wheelhouse into a great seismic motion. Lyanna lifted Alys’ basket light and held it straight while the danger passed.

Letting out a curse, the older woman picked up her mending from where it had fallen. “At long last, after a wait more than enough to turn her heart to ashes, she saw a lone figure in the low twilight glow approaching. And yet at once she perceived upon his back an object so very strange. From her place among the leaves she did not move an inch.”

Alys mewled gently, twisting around, her eyes opening. She did not weep however, thus her wakefulness was greeted with a smile and a chuckle from Posy. “The man carried no great values with him, not even a satchel of his own. He stopped straight under the girl’s tree and she could make out what he did carry. A great shovel. The heart within her wept. But the man, unknowing, set himself to digging. A dug a hole near the roots of the tree, in the shade; a small gap in the soft earth for even swollen with child, our girl was such a small thing. He sang as he went about his task, one of those songs so oft sung by lovers.”

Scandalised, Tilly sputtered a few words unceremoniously, interrupting Posy yet again. The woman threw her a quelling look. “Once done with the grave, our apprentice pulled from his tunic a knife and walked a few steps away. He then began to speak in greeting, as if she stood before him. Words of love poured from his lips, like poison from a serpent’s forked tongue. A single tear slipped down her cheek when he hugged the air with one arm, swearing eternal protection, and the knife in his other hand came down in a rain of vicious blows. He stabbed the air until he was out of breath.”

A cad and a murderer. Lyanna shook her head. The only question was if the girl was enough of a fool to climb down from her hiding spot. Posy was quick to answer. “Our girl remained perched upon her branch, hiding as best she could, the darkness of the night helping her along until dawn when her lover, grumbling to himself, picked up his shovel and bore it away, stepping towards the village. Only after he was gone did she climb down from her tree. She gazed at the bed her lover had made and laid within it, closing her eyes. Poor thing embraced the Stranger there for she’d been slain without the aid of any blade.”             

The cautionary tale ended upon that dreary note, leaving a disgruntled servant girl in its wake. Lyanna had but a moment to wonder why it was that her poor companion took the story to heart, for Tilly promptly huffed. “’Twas an engaging tale, verily, was it not, m’lady? But far too fanciful.”

“Engaging,” she agreed without missing a beat.

“May I follow with a tale of my own?” the servant asked, a certain glint in her eyes. “I know just the one.”A nod was all she needed to proceed. “I will speak to you of a merchant and his wife who lived, as the story goes, somewhere by the sea.”

That was a milieu Lyanna was more than familiar with. A small shiver glided along the vertebras of her spine. A home by the sea where drowning was the least of one’s worries, for if the waves never dragged you in there were still the storms, the occasional wreckage and every so often the salty air causing one to cough incessantly. On the other hand, the view was particularly beautiful. Not privy to her musings the servant girl went on.

“One day a ship arrived, filled with men and women, all carrying goods to sell. The merchant’s wife rowed in one of the small boats towards that ship, as her man had been gone the past few days and she could not afford the wait lest the best be sold to other women of the village.” Posy pulled a face, creases grazing her skin, faint traces like gliding ghosts. “Aye, this merchant’s wife carried herself just so,” Tilly strengthened, stealing a glance at the older woman. There was a brief moment of silence as two pairs of eyes met and held. “Upon the ship there was a special woman. An old hag, as it were. And she carried with herself a chest.”

“Full of fluff, like your head,” Posy mocked, a cutting smile creeping upon her face.

“Nay, as it happened, the woman did not carry a bit of fluff with her,” Tilly contradicted, brow furrowing.

Fearing a possible altercation between them, Lyanna chipped in. “Settle your feathers, Tilly, and tell me about this chest. I am growing curious.” One of Alys’ hands rose heavenwards, small fingers wrapping around an outstretched digit, the hold feather-like. “Well, Alys, shall we hear about the chest.”

Alys, in reply, whines quietly, her grip tightening minutely. “I do believe we are prepared to hear the rest of this tale,” Lyanna declared, looking up at the duo sitting opposite of her. “If you would be so kind, Tilly.”

Tilly drew back slightly. “As I was saying, there was a chest. A wondrous thing, neither great nor small, just so, sized to fit all manner of wonders. Upon that very chest landed the eyes of the merchant’s wife. She tried to bargain with the crone, promising pieces of gold in exchange for what was within, but the old woman would not accept any price, no matter how generous. In the end, the wife admitted defeat and invited all those aboard into her own home for the night, thinking that might be there should still be time to convince the old woman. And here is where strange things begin to happen.”

The wheelhouse shook lightly, eliciting a gasp from Tilly, cutting off momentum as well. Rumbling and rattling flowed within, signalling no interruption would delay the journey. Relief tentatively crept upon the heels of the discovery, a light fall in itself. Safe for the moment from the dangers of the outside world, Tilly commenced her piece with more fervour than before. “The guests settled in their chambers, receiving from the merchant’s wife a fully furnished bed. All but the old woman accepted it as a gift. She, on the other hand, insisted that the bed be stripped and her own sheet-cloth be placed upon the bed, a great red embroidered thing which struck the merchant’s wife with awe. Knowing better than to bargain, she only asked if she could sleep in the same bed with the crone, but was immediately refused. ‘No matter what sounds you hear coming from this room, you must not peek inside until the sun is upon the sky,’ were the instructions she received from the crone. What do you think our merchant’s wife did?”

“Why, I should hope she decided to crush her curiosity and keep safe,” Lyanna ventured with a grin. She was more than familiar with the device of the story and could guess as to the fate of the merchant’s wife. In the manner of such tales, the poor woman would be compelled to look. Lyanna shook her head.

“That might have saved her some trouble,” Tilly acknowledged. “But nay, our good wife took an entirely different path. When night fell, she waited for the household to fall to sleep before making her way to the door of the hag’s bedchamber. A soft scratching noise could be heard from behind it, slithering against the wood. Frightened the woman waited a few moments before gingerly cracking the door open just enough to see a bushy tail disappear under the bed. Fearing she might wake the crone and anger her with disobedience, the wife closed the door and retreated to her own bedchamber. News came the next day that all the crops in the village had been flattened in the night by some terrifying force. The merchant’s wife, full of pity and guilt, kept silent. But that night she repaired a second time outside the hag’s door, listening to the scratching noises from within. She opened the door, hoping to catch the beast, whom she thought a car, in the act, but all she earned for her efforts was three wounds upon her arm from the beast who’d hidden under the bed just as soon. ”  

“Demon,” Posy muttered under her breath, leaving little doubt she spoke not of the presumed cat cowering under the bed. “No good ever comes out of such encounters, I tell you.”

No gods fearing creature would ever claim otherwise. Nevertheless, Lyanna was waiting for the other shoe to drop. Encounters, even accidental in nature, provided much needed entertainment. And who was to say a demon might not be tricked into its own undoing.

The take wore on. “On the third night, the good woman of the house came bearing weapons of her own. She clutched tightly to her chest hallowed water, fully intending to dump it upon whatever wretch dwelled in that chamber. But words–eh, ‘tis well known words are the easiest task of all. Upon her return to the chamber door, the woman saw it was open. A small enough crack for her eye to peek within. With careful steps she approached it and knelt, placing her face very near against the wood–never even imagining…”

Anticipation swelled to live, greedily luxuriating in the gentle hush of the ever in motion wheelhouse. “The poor thing. Upon my word, she never even imagined what fate awaited her. There was no sound of warning, not even a flicker of movement; naught at all to let her know she should throw the water to the ground and run as far as her feet could carry her. There was naught but the sharp pain of being torn into by thin blade. A perfect cut, parting the good wife from crown down.” The shoe had dropped. “And the door parted even wider, revealing the true face of the guest. Bony fingers took hold of the severed halves and dragged them within, the door closing slowly with a forlorn shriek. Come morning naught remained of the merchant’s wife and naught of her guest but an unlit lantern resting upon the stripped bed. And the villagers whispered that she’d heard the Crone’s call deep in the night and instead of taking heed when she was warned away, she had sought after the secrets well-hidden and the Stranger, ever partner to the old wise woman had taken her for his own with a cold kiss of his finely sharpened blade. That was the end of the merchant’s wife.”

“Beautifully delivered,” Lyanna acknowledged. “I’d been hoping she would survive, but I do not suppose crossing the gods leaves one such a choice. Where ever did you hear this tale?”

Tilly blushed. “There was a septon in the village. He would tell this tale whenever someone pestered him with questions. Curiosity killed the cat, as it were.”

“Stupidity could have only aided,” Posy ventured. Having paid her dues upon the altar of tale spinning, she turned towards Lyanna with an expectant glance. “My lady is of the North, I understand. Never have I heard a tale from those parts.”

“I fear my skill is not much to boast of, but having heard such exemplary tales, I cannot refuse. Very well, then, let me see what tales I can recall.”  She remembered a few songs, the Crow’s Lament, Brave Dany Flint and even the song of Night’s King. But these all of them were likely known in one form or another. Nay, she needed some tale of more obscure plumage. “This tale, if I rightly recall, goes by the name of the King’s Three Wives. I do wonder–” Her silence was not followed by a completion of the thought. “Well then, sometime before the Age of Heroes, when the lands were split between a myriad of kings each the keeper of his own kingdom, there was in the farthest, most remote part of the North a small border realm ruled by an old king who had no sons. In his old age, upon the advice of his men, he sought out the hand of the neighbouring king’s daughter. Since no hardship had ruled their bond, the father accepted, giving away his young daughter with aplomb. Very soon, though, word came that the daughter had vanished. As to how that could be, no man had explanation. A few years passed and again, upon the advice of his men, the king wedded. This time, however, he chose a good widow still in her childbearing years.” If the tale had been called the King’s Two Wives Lyanna would have know the exact ending she wanted for it. Digression aside, it was somewhat ironic.

“That is more like it,” Tilly contributed. “Old men should know to keep to their ilk.”

“And young fools should know to keep their mouths shut,” the other warned. “Always so eager to speak, you are. Best fill your mouth with prayer.” But Tilly seemed more inclined towards other acts by the look of her.

“The widow lasted longer than the maiden, yet even she, at some point, by some evil sorcery, vanished somewhere in the king’s realm. To no avail did the men search for her. They searched high and low, in every nook and cranny, but ‘twas all for naught. Gone she was and gone she would remain. The king still had no son to carry on his name. And yet how could he wed again when even his men hid their daughters from sight or found some great flaw in them to keep the sheep away from the wolf. ‘Twas all the man could do not to beg. He resigned himself to no sons, no one to pass on his name to. Until, lo and behold, there came a man dragging in his wake a cart. Within it was a plain and drawn looking maiden of no great distinction.”

A thoughtful look crossed Posy’s face. She did not interrupt however, thus Lyanna went on. “The man requested that the king hear him and began his own tale. Born with naught to his name but a few fingers of land, he had managed only to raise his daughter, plain and simple as she was. But he had no more and the girl would starve. He’d heard, though, that the king was in need of a wife. Making no mention of her two predecessors, the peasant offered the king her hand for her weight in grain.”

There was no comment from the other two. Lyanna suspected famine was not unknown to either as there had been enough instances of it to carve the general feeling of despair deep into the very bones of the lower class. “The king did not refuse. The daughter was young and pretty, in a quiet sort of way, and doubtlessly, he would give her a better life. He would not allow harm to come to his third wife. Thus the king instructed his men to guard her bedchamber until the wedding. She said naught to that, short of giving an accepting nod no other movement did she make. For her bravery, the king ordered she be installed in the chambers of the queen, even before she wedded him. And there the maiden spent her first night. And there she found what the fate of the other two brides had been. It happed upon the hour of ghosts. As such discoveries went, the hour of ghosts has long since been known to show all manners of horrors.”

“Most wretched hour. The dead are a wily lot,” Tilly complained. As if Lyanna hadn’t known that. She held back a shiver as she recalled the denizens of the underworld dancing rings around her. Poor Tilly; she didn’t know half of it.

“Indeed. So the maiden, lying in bed, heard upon the heels of the hour of the eel, a tiny voice coming from beneath her bed. ‘Your kingly husband trips ‘neath the hill. Hurry and set him free.’ But the maiden was no silly thing. The sole hill of the keep was within the walls and housed naught but the remnants of the first king. Why would her prospective husband be there? She ignored the voice and went to sleep. On the second night, the same voice spoke to her, raspier and yet more urgent than before, ‘Your kingly husband trips ‘neath the hill. Hurry and set him free.’ She took with her only a candle and bundled in furs made her way to the hill; the guards at her door had long since gone to sleep. The entrance of the mound gaped before her, as if in wait. She entered, the flickering light in her hand the sole companion. The hour of the ghosts was near at an end as she made her way down the narrow corridor. Before the main doors two heads were set, a few feet apart. The maiden knew neither but they were woman with wide eyes. They might have looked a bit like her in life. She gasped. ‘Turn back,’ the first said. ‘Go on,’ the other urged. Indecisively, the maiden stood before the doors. She returned to her own bedchamber in the end, convincing herself she’d dreamt the heads. On the third night, however, she waited wide awake for the voice to come. It did not disappoint, ‘Your kingly husband trips ‘neath the hill. Hurry and set him free.’ The maiden took her light once more, but instead of heading for the mound, she passed by the guards at the door and went to the king’s chambers. She entered slowly and found, indeed, that her husband-to-be slept in his bed, none the wiser to what went on. The maiden shook him awake.”

“’Tis not the king then,” Tilly voiced. “I thought forsooth the king had murdered the other brides.”

“But the king slept in his bed, so it cannot have been him, aye?” Lyanna allowed. “Nay, the king came to and saw his bride at his side. The maiden explained to him that she was called away from her bed by a vice claiming he waited for her westwards, in the first king’s barrow. You may imagine what impression such words made upon the man. He thought to himself that it was the good fortune which twisted her mind, but she kept insisting upon her story. So he followed her within the queen’s bedchamber and reclined upon her bed as she hid herself away from sight. ‘Twas not long after that that he heard, coming from seemingly all around, a thin, stretched voice ‘Your kingly husband trips ‘neath the hill. Hurry and set him free.’ He rose from the bed and tried to rouse the guards, but they slept deep, as if enchanted. Thus he was left with only his prospective queen, holding a light and bundles furs. With her he stayed until came the hour of the nightingale and whatever spell held his men captive was lifted. Unknowing of what to do, he asked the wise men of his council for a solution. After much deliberation, they resolved that the king’s best warrior should lie in the queen’s chambers and follow the voice’s instructions and slay whatever rested in the dank dark earth.  The hero set forth upon this quest, asking of the king that if he should not return, his kin he provided for upon the price garnered from his suit of armour. But such valiant and brave men do not fall easily. Thus when came the night, he took to his task, wrapping himself up in the fine silks of the queen’s bed and waited for the enemy’s call.  Again rose the voice upon the hour of ghosts. ‘Your kingly husband trips ‘neath the hill. Hurry and set him free.’ The hero hurried to the mound and saw the entrance uncovered. He followed the road until he came upon a set of doors guarded by two skulls. Yet before he cut place one foot in front of the other, the doors blew open releasing a fierce beast of indistinctive form. Our hero did battle with the foe until sensing it weaken, he prayed the gods for strength and struck at the long neck. Upon the ground did the head fall, releasing without two coiled bodies, headless as well. By cloth he knew them to be former queens. The hero took them back to his king, along with the beast’s severed head. Thus in the end, the king had his queen and eventually sons of his own, the hero was given a splendid treasure for his service and the land prospered as misfortune lifted.”        

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Janos Rambton threw his good-sister a suspicious look. “I would have you remember, lady, that I’ve watched you grow before mine own eyes. Have a care how you wag your tongue in my presence.” Melda’s glare softened. “Now, I seem to recall you were given a task of sorts.”

She grimaced and glanced towards her sister who had engaged Lady Elayne, a thin smile upon her lips. “I do not see why we should concern ourselves with these matters.” The girl worried a plump lip between her teeth. “She plans to go against Cersei Lannister.”

He snorted. “And why should she not?” Janos stared at the back of his wife’s head. As if the Lannister wench were her better. Janos preferred not to think too long upon past liaisons, for the King had placed Sella in his care and he’d vowed he would forget the way she came to him, but she was more than the lioness’ equal. “Methinks you find it hard to accept, but my dear good-sister, some thing in this life we cannot shy from. Do as you were asked.”

“I perceive I’ve no choice upon the matter,” she sighed and looked away, the heat of her stare fading. “But I simply cannot understand what you hope to accomplish. I can find a husband of my own, if it comes to that.”

“A pox on your husband,” he chuckled. “What do I care if you find one or not? Listen here, the King wants change. I want change. One hand washes the other. You understand?” A brief shake of the head stole a smile from him. “Power is changing hands. Lord Lannister belongs to the old order. ‘Tis past time he slacked his grip on the reins and allowed others their turn.”

“But, what of the Reynes? They thought the reins of power should change hands as well,” the maiden pointed out, lips flattening in a contemplative line. “If the King fails are we to go a-begging to Lord Lannister? He would part our heads from our bodies.” The visible shiver told of the strength of her fear.

“Never you fear, House Reyne made a direct challenge. We only follow orders. As for failure, I rather doubt it shall be the case. From what your sister says, the King has some grand plan to see to. And Lord Lannister shall fall into a pit of his own making.”

“I have tried to warn you,” Melds shrugged in the end. “I suppose there is naught to do but play my part.”  He nodded solemnly, sending her on the path which she ought to have taken in the first place. Janos did not look to see who approached her. He had not enough time to, for Sella had broken with her companion and was returning to his side, a triumphant smile on her face.

“What news, my love, brings such joy to your face?” he questioned, holding one hand out. She placed her fingers upon his and allowed a small moment to pass between them. “Well?”

“You lack patience, husband. And I even more so.” A toothy grin spread upon her face. “Lady Elayne wished to let me know that she would venture first. I suppose I must give her precedence in this.” Sella leaned in to whisper. “All the better for I am not ready to give you up. I do believe this hunt will be most entertaining.”

“Why do you say that?” he asked in return, releasing hold of her hand. “Or do you simply mean that you shall find it most entertaining?” Blue eyes lit up. “Ah, I seem to have stumbled upon something. Take pity, lady wife, and enlighten me.”

Sella waved her hand dismissively. “I do not rightly know myself, but from what I’ve gathered, this pit we speak of is rather deep. Might be there are even sharp poles at the bottom, waiting for the victims to fall. We are not speaking of a toothless lion here, husband, but of a clawless one.”

“Most intriguing,” he agreed without missing a beat. “A clawless lion. But this lion; he is not alone. House Lannister will not part easily from their prize. Lord Twyin won in much to hard for it to be otherwise. Melda worried we shall lose our head for a fruitless scheme.”

“Melda worries too much. She is but an unknowing child,” his wife huffed, not crossing her arms over her chest for the sole reason that the reins impeded it. “I hope you have done your utmost best to calm her fears.”

“I told her we’ve no reason to fear, but Sella, ‘tis dangerous. If the colossus falls, debris might strike us. I cannot know for certain what the King plans to do.” Her shrug left him cold. “I was simply saying, lady wife. No need to take on so.”

“And I was simply shrugging. No need to take it to heart. All that I know is I’ve yet to be disappointed by this man. I shan’t doubt him now and if you love me, you will allow that I have come to this conclusion with good cause. Come Janos, think of your seat upon the King’s council and bear it for a little while. For my sake,” she added when that failed to impress him, artfully batting her eyelashes his way.

“Too that I can only say you’ve won,” he said in the end, turning his gaze to the King riding ahead. One angry lioness rode close by, watching with hatred the lively conversation Lady Elayne had sparked. He could only hope it all went well, after all. Lady Elayne said something to the aforementioned Cersei Lannister who offered a smile of sweet-poison before her lips moved to reply.

“Look; Elayne is as good as her word. I cannot wait for my turn.” With a small quake he realised she treated it as if it were a game. “See if I do not turn the bloodless bitch inside out.” Laughter poured past her lips.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clues in chapter. I assume you have already detected them but if not then good luck with that. Before you ask, no, I don't know when I'll update next, yes, I'll try to keep the same length and no, we are not near the end of this story.
> 
> That would be about all. For me, I feel like this was a bit of a weak chapter, but I needed the transition, so there you have it.
> 
> If you have questions fell free to ask.
> 
> Here's something for your trouble: [Your Demise is Imminent](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGSfHWEgTPY) Hope it brings a smile, although if you know the original you're probably already laughing. If you ever need nice words to eviscerate fools. :D


	21. Telltale Chill

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her brother was nervous. Cersei gave him a long look, trying her best to seem as though there was no particular point to her focus. She knew Jaime; knew him better than he knew himself. There was aught odd about his mannerism. It was difficult to not corner him and demand an explanation for his behaviour. Alas, she could not afford to take the time to investigate. Cersei bit the inside of her cheek against any sign which might betray her.

Possibly he was still sour because of her plan. Her brother had never enjoyed sharing her attention. That she could not aid him with however. Finally she had the attention of the one man she’d always wanted. Or, she almost had it.

The Lysene whore had leeched onto him like a plague. Lady Elayne was following her example, clearly enjoying herself as she laughed at aught Rhaegar said in reply to her earlier assortment. She offered the woman a subtle glare. Elayne’s lips curled into a secretive smile, as though she knew something and she was letting her know she would not tell. Cersei greeted her teeth against a few choice words and forced her own face into a pleasant mien. “Why, of course, although I must confess, I was never much interested in mummers’ plays.”

“’Tis a pity. Your Majesty was much amused, as I recall.” She was acting as though she’d won some sort of competition against her.

“Essosi mummers are much better,” she trudged on, determined to not be outdone. “Although some years have passed, Your Majesty might recall their presence at the tourney my father held in honour of Prince Viserys’ birth.

Elayne’s face froze into a blank mask. She’d been effectively driven from the conversation for at least a number of replies. The King’s nod elicited a satisfaction from her. He remembered. After all this time. Cersei felt her lips form a fond smile.

“I remember rather well. ‘Twas a wonderful performance.” She led her horse slightly closer. He seemed to appreciate her boldness. “It was the first time you’d seen aught of its like, aye?” Somehow it felt as though he was asking much more than that. But Cersei shook any lingering suspicion away.

“It was.” She glanced over her shoulder. A young creature was riding alongside her brother, her body leaned in slightly. If she moved any closer she’d lose her seat and fall to her death, or at the very least a horrendous injury. Her eyes met her brother’s and for a brief moment she caught a glimpse of something dark behind that stare. Yet as quick as the flash had come, it was gone, and his attention moved to his conversation partner. “Your Majesty has had more time to see the wonders of the world.”

“A matter of good fortune, rather,” he offered, “if one should take it in such a manner. But I assure you, my lady, I have yet to see even a small portion of all the wonders that exist.”

“Now, now, Your Majesty, do not sell yourself short,” the pillow girl intervened. Her painted lips, a strident red, was the only thing Cersei could concentrate on as her smooth voice filled her ears. There was aught there. She shivered. But the Lysene woman continued, “There is more than enough of that wonder you know very well.”

Bristling at what was implied, Cersei swallowed. Nevertheless, she would not run from the fight. “What an interesting observation,” she chimed in. “Your knowledge has us all intrigued.” Why the King insisted to keep the woman around she could not understand. It was true that the pillow girl was beautiful, but Lady Elayne, much as Cersei despised acknowledging it, was equally good looking.

The pillow girl laughed. “My lady, I know no more than anyone else.” The King chuckled, as if her response had been the wittiest thing ever.

“Although one must admit ‘tis a matter of much renown.” Elayne and the Lysene woman exchanged a glance fraught with what Cersei could only assume was rivalry. The only woman missing was the one still speaking to her husband. Better that she’d not entered the conversation. She took only a moment to assess the woman was still doing just so. To her relief, Lady Sella, as she was called, looked to be more than content with the man she’d wedded.

 “You will frighten poor Lady Cersei and shall cast me in an unfavourable light.” He made a shooing motion and the two women pouted, the eerie similarity of their expressions seeming rehearsed. They retreated a short distance away. Cersei ignored the feeling roiling into the pit of her stomach. “Do not mind their prattle. They mean no harm.”

She took a few moments to form a response, but she could see the moment she spoke that he was taken aback. “If I am not being indelicate, Your Majesty, why exactly do they prattle?” She knew it was a question he could outrightly refuse to reply to if he so wished. But for some reason she could not let it go.

He sighed. It seemed to her that he would not answer. But then he did. “That would not cast me in a favourable light either. You are not a very merciful soul, are you, my lady?” His eyes lingered on hers, prodding, asking.

She wanted to deny it. It was much too soon to follow such subtle cues. “It would depend, Your Majesty, very much upon the attitude of the guilty party.” A slow blink indicated his understanding. His lips pursed.

“Very well, if I must admit it, I suppose it would be best to be entirely frank. I know them well, as well as they know me. You see, my lady, loneliness has a way of pushing such matters.” By way of explanation it was entirely acceptable.

Men would be men, she supposed. Cersei knew she could not hold aught of his past against him. Best to concentrate on her own plans. She nodded her head, face slightly pinched.  “I understand.” After all ‘twas the pure truth. “I do not expect a saint, Your Majesty.”

Her answer seemed to take any anxiety away from his features. His lips quirked. “’Tis for the best that you do not. I am not remotely saintly.” The admission and his expression was only slightly sheepish. Cersei struggled not to mirror it and plaster an understanding cast to her visage. She was not one to demand saintliness; if fortunate she would not have to explain her own experience.  She allowed the matter to drop, changed the subject even, steering the conversation into another direction entirely.

She noted, after some time, that no one was approaching them. Swift elation filled her. She had his sole attention. The King navigated the both of them over the sleet covered earth. His leg brushed against hers as their horses drew together. Cersei leaned in the slightest bit. He did the same but he was not very shy about the pursuit. Cersei supposed that to be aught that he’d inherited from his father.  She could not rightly protest. Thus she went on to encourage him, enjoying the blatant attention.

Before long the party had calmed down, conversation lulling into a silent hum. She knew then they’d found prey. From somewhere ahead whistles rang out. A drum and jingling bells caused a ruckus. Hounds barked and howled. Ahead in the trees glinting flashes indicated movement. Cersei moved even closer to the King. He accepted it as his due but his attention moved to his quarry.    

The quiver on his back was jostled slightly. One of the boys brought his arrow and he took aim. Cersei took a few moments to admire his form, knowing that somewhere in the tree line there is a doe or a stag waiting for the fatal blow. She imagined what lied under the layers of cloth. Cersei did not have much time for it though as he released the arrow. Leaves rustled. A horn was blown. The drum sounded out once more. Rhaegar plucked out another arrow. She had the feeling he was not trying very hard to shoot the beast.

The string danced tremulously even after the arrow was flying towards the target. A wail followed the sickening sound of coming from behind the green canopy. She did not look. Blood always brought out a peculiar feeling within her.

The long celebratory cry of the horn confirmed her suspicions. She congratulated the King for his victory, complimenting his skill which as much craftiness she could muster. He seemed pleased. Men truly were all the same. Smothering a thrill of laughter she looked about, only to meet her brother’s eyes, a blazing flame behind the darkening colours swirling. A long breath hissed through her teeth.

“Is aught amiss?” The question snapped the thread between her and Jaime. She looked towards Rhaegar. “Distracted so easily, my lady? I am hurt.” He did not sound it. Cersei rather thought he sounded slightly mockingly, or if not that derisory, at least it seemed he was not in earnest.    

 

 

 

 

 

     

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Pryatis had coiled itself around the newborn, the width of his body enough to cover the dragonling. His call was replied to with a soft croak, might be a sign to land as well and see to the babe. But Jon felt Darys’ refusal lap against him in sharp waves. Thus instead he evaded the concentrated effort of a bewildered Viserys and a slightly apprehensive Renly to catch him.

Unfortunately, those two brought about the arrival of a number of servants. Their attempts to capture him Jon fought off more violently. Darys had grown some and with the good food, he was the size of a small dog. Still tiny enough to be subjugated to the force of man’s arms, but a tad heavier and much more resilient than before. Where one had to add that a fire-spewing attack was sure to clear the path. Alas, Jon would have wished not to harm the King’s servants if it could be helped.

Deprived of Pryatis’ aid, he manoeuvred himself with some difficulty between the grasping hands and distracting yells, managing to work his way out of the danger zone, snapping his jaws threateningly when one of the men got too close. As if sensing the inherent danger in trapping a dragon, he retreated a few steps back allowing Jon to scurry away and take flight, much to his delight. Footfalls could be heard from behind as no doubt he was being followed. The heavy step caused him some unease as he ascended towards the high ceiling. Louder calls rang out from somewhere behind him as he found a lancet wide enough to allow him passage and hurriedly dashed into the night, his pursuers unable to follow straight away.    

Jon ignored the commotion left in his wake. In the ensuing struggle to maintain a straight trajectory he found that flight operated on a slightly less stable ground than legs. To his utter dismay, every flap of wide wings caused tiny needles to lodge into the soft membrane. It was the harsh cold which Darys had not seen much of, locked safely in those chambers as he’d been, that cause him such discomfort. He attempted to maximise his speed, forcing his wings into a fevered rhythm, but Darys growls of protest disabused him swiftly enough of that notion. Forced into a smoother pace, Jon could do little but grip the reins of control as Darys’ presence settled somewhere near him, as though he stood guard over some notable dignitary, bent ion ensuring that no ill befell him. To him it seemed a move of little use, as Jon was certain naught had followed them. No foul presence lingered about. But Darys did not slack in his duties, his thought aught to the effect that he was prepared for any eventuality, be it pleasant or otherwise.

Satisfied with that, Jon remained in control as they flew over the wall, wide eyes lingering upon them, but none daring to bring them harm. He furtively glanced towards the guards, but the men could do little but gape, one going as far as to rub his eyes. Inwardly Jon laughed at the perfectly ordinary yet out of place reaction. He’s expected at least a shriek of terror. He was not to be gratified.

Having passed the gates, he whiffed gently at the cool air, wondering how Darys planned to find his mother. But the dragon merely relied on sharpened instincts to guide the both of them through the darkness. Somewhere behind them the faint roar of the sea thrummed gently. Ahead, in the distance, the urban sprawl of crooked and darkened buildings spread out over the land. As the crow flies, they closed the distance between them and King’s Landing. The closer they were, the better Jon could make out narrow streets and, upon further inspections, straight lines of wood and stone. Every once in a while dim light flickered behind diaphanous curtains, fires roaring or candles burning. Jon paid those little mind. Darys even less so.

If they followed the Kingsroad they risked being easily found, and even easier to capture. But Jon was not certain how they’d managed if they took to the forest. No doubt game could be found among the thick lines of trees and their pursuers would be unable to track them; it would be difficult even with hounds. At least if Darys kept on the wing. If not, the gods only knew what should happen.

He heard himself croak, the sound exceedingly loud in the warped silence. His heart gaped in his chest, fatigue and worry catching up as he found himself outside the realm of tangible danger. Short stops for rest and hunting would have to do. Jon relied it to Darys in as simple terms as he could find.

The pale moon hanging upon the sky was a fat dollop of silvery light. Dangerous to travel under, yet more dangerous to travel in the absence of. He was yet unsure of how well the beast could see in the dark and had no wish to test the waters before he reached mother. Thus Jon held himself back from any form of adventure, preferring to keep a straight course, towards the thin dark line ahead. Might be he could even find a tree with adequately intricate a branch pattern and sleep within its nest for the night. Better than trying to navigate with no sense of direction.

Glancing down, Jon a man stumbling to and fro, a skin in his hand. A child followed behind. The man was singing. The voice carried over the wheezing gale. Were he in his own body he was certain his skin would have been under the effects of a spontaneous combustion. The unshakable certainty that the words sung down below him were of the kind his mother routinely stopped him from hearing caused his interest to sharpen into keen curiosity, as he sampled the less reputable songs the realm had to offer. He did not allow himself to linger.

Nearing the entrance into a maze of nearly coverless branches, Jon dipped lower, wondering if he ought to look for some sort of sap-free gap in one of the thick trunks and allow himself some rest before venturing on a much longer flight. The thin layer of sleet was smooth underneath stumpy digits, claws dragging against the film. Nearer to the protruding roots of massive trees, it gave way into sleet. The icy sludge did not inspire within Jon any shred of desire for a closer acquaintance; nevertheless he stepped even further, gauging the distance between himself and the roots.

In one elegant motion, wings spread wide. Within the blink of an eye, feet were firmly planted upon dried bark. The scent of blood flittered about. His stomach tightened. Jon suppressed a shiver of disgust. Not at the blood. But rather at the visceral reaction his body gave. Hunger burned his throat and something twisted sharply as instinct kicked in. Without him meaning to, he took flight once more, honed in on what looked to be a furry squirrel. He realised upon first sight that it was nearly dead,

The poor beasty, Jon considered, eyes roaming the gaping wound splitting its side open. Might be wolf had hunted it, or might be some man-made trap had done the creature in. Whatever it was, splotches of blood trailed into nearby shrubs, signalling the amount lost had been great. Darys was shaking lightly, the tremble one of anticipation as opposed to Jon’s dread.

His cavernous maw opened gently, two sharp rows of teeth exposed to the dying one whose struggle became even more pronounced when it realised the danger. Having never made a point of being harsh with the dragon, Jon was not certain upon how he should approach the interdiction. Even so, his mind cried out a stern reprimand Darys’ way, inflecting it with a sharp layer of steel. Darys reared back, croaking confusion percolating his demeanour. But Jon held fast to his earlier refusal. The squirrel should be allowed to die in peace. In fact, if Darys wished to help he might curb its suffering. But eating it was out of the question.

Darys’ traction was not aught Jon would have expected. Instead of complying with the request, the beastling forced control over the boy from Jon and approached the wounded animal. Without thinking, he tried to wrest away from the winged creature its body, but all that gained him was a fierce opposition from Darys. The dragon’s conscience pushed against his, pressure building slowly. To no avail did Jon explain. Darys hungered and would not listen. It had to feed and naught might be impressed upon him to stave that hunger. With one last wrench, Jon felt himself slip out of the dragon’s body, pain tearing him apart. The burn of it was not like a kiss of fire; it left him chilled, in a field of light so strong he had to close his eyes to weather it. A foreign sound, a cry of pain, penetrated the silence; deafening. Darys had gone against his wishes.                     

When he opened his eyes he was no longer with the dragon. He was no longer near the protruding roots and injured squirrel. A field stretched out before him, wild flowers in full bloom. Unlike in any other of his visions, the sun was shining bright in the sky, grass blades swaying in the gentle breeze to an unheard melody. There were no sounds to speak of, not even the rustling of leaves as they danced upon slim branches. He admired the controlled motion for a few moments, the shades of green swimming before his eyes. It was calming.

He sat down upon the ground then, flattening the grass beneath him. From that position he could not see the view as clearly as before, but the sun caressed his face and the wind played in his hair. He would have to sit in the field until his mind led him to a populated place or aught happened which would make his blood flow. Might be Brynden wished to speak to him. It was rather strange though; they’d never met in the light of day. He’d thought daytime was not possible, nor summer for that matter. It was heartening to see such warmth after the cold he’d endured. It was not entirely gone, the sickening chill clinging to his bones in thin sheets of sharp-pain, nestled beneath soft flesh and feckless muscle still under the effects of re-entering his own body. He supposed convalescence could be achieved only after a number of hours or even days spent reacquainting himself with the motor skills provided by a bipedal, wingless model. Jon sighed softly and lifted up his hand to shield his eyes as his gaze wandered towards the cloudless skies.

The five fingers were splayed wide open, light leaking through the gaps. The comforting shades fell in gentle waves, darkening bits and patches with its touch. And still, outside of his irregular shifting and the to and fro of the grass and leaves, there was naught to be seen out in the field. Jon could not even feel a presence nearby. Not even that child, his mirrored-image of frost-bite and cold-skin was nowhere to be seen. He relished the company not, yet running through the grass would at least be something to do. He could not sit there and waste away.    

Determination surged through him as Jon rose to his feet and shook off the vegetation clinging to his sleeves and breeches. He would not be contented with waiting passively for whatever roamed these fields to find him. He would find it. Better to know his friend or foe. Looking about to make certain naught of use had escaped his attention, he concluded after a hurried perusal that he might move on without fear of repercussions. Upon the heel of that, Jon began making his way through the overgrown assortment of greens, swathing tall stalks left and right with zealous resolve  

Jon negotiated his way through the waving looming grass, near as tall as he was advancing towards some unknown point where aught waited. It waited not for a body to stumble upon it, but for a certain soul to discover it. Or at least that was what Jon gathered from the thrumming hum’s gentle ring. Thus he walked forth, following the silent sound. It was akin to chasing fireflies in the dark, even though one could never see quite as well baring the presence of moonlight. Once more, he looked with genuine curiosity towards the shining sun, just long enough for a subtle sting to beat away at the sight’s clarity. He did not fight the instinct and moved his eyes away from the blinding light.

A pocket of smooth earth rose as if from the depths, a large stone in the middle of the island. His attention was upon the spot, transferring all his attention upon the single point of sharp grey lines, the washed-away colour out of place among the whispering grass. His legs pumped harder than before, an overpowering sense of curiosity forcing him into a state of frenzy as the knots of grass attempted in vain to impede his progress. But he was not discouraged by this opposition. There’s been more than enough like challenges he’d passed.

Once he reached the protruding rock, Jon clambered atop of it, elevating himself to such a degree that he could make out beyond a waning crescent the ominous shape of a peculiarly set ring of tall stones. They formed a perfect circle, crafted no doubt by the hand of nature, once-rough edges smoothed over by wailing winds and unnumbered falls of heavy rain, or so Jon imagined. There was naught to suggest one of those downpours anywhere about. Still, he kept his eyes trained upon the spot body leaning in slightly, wondering how else those forms could have been achieve short of a stonemason taking a chisel to the gargantuan formation. Might be even a team of such craftsmen, for one single individual would either need a chisel to match the giants or a few lifetimes to accomplish the task. Shaking the thought loose, he climbed down from the makeshift stool with a careful step. The ring of firm earth around him might have been a marker, or even part of a grander construction.

As the notion struck, a sense of wonder filled Jon. Might be he’d been hasty in his conclusion. If it were indeed a manmade edifice, Jon could well be standing over the remnants of a keep. Thrilled at the prospect, he renounced the safety of the boulder in a sea of grass and bore himself further still, creating a path for himself. Fairly soon he could make out the tops of those rounded peaks; they beckoned him closer, the lure entrancing. It was almost as if the call reverberated through him, into his very soul. As if he was headed for home.

Home. The notion struck a cord within him, pinching hard at the sliver-thin line. The discordant screech melted into a calming hum as the grass blades leaned in towards him, as if the ground had tilted over and they could no longer keep straight. He found the motion odd and pushed away at the foliage with clumsy fingers. Their sheer number made even that a difficult task. Would that he’d managed to find himself some sort of weapon to carry about, even in his visions; he would have fain used that to rid himself of these pesky troublesome impediments.       

Nevertheless, he had to force his way through the waves with brute strength as his only aid, flattening beneath the heel of his shoe every bit of grass in his way. Behind him a thin trail had formed, Had he been in Darys’ body flying above it, Jon was certain it would look to him a dark streak, out of place even as it was helpful. The formation of rock glowed before him. Bathed in sunlight, the grey shone brightly, the fine grain of surface smooth as a looking-glass. He could see naught reflected in it for all that. A pity. He should have enjoyed seeing what distortions such hard material brought.

At long last he escaped the infinite stretch of grass and stumbled over the last of blades into what looked to be some sort of valley. Its walls rose around the stone structure as if to guard it from sight. Despite the sun still being high in the sky, spilling is warmth over with a pail, Jon was assaulted by a creeping chill. This one was a lesser version of the earlier coldness, coiling around him skin-deep only. It bore the reluctant strength of a frayed gale breaking against the mountain’s side, unable to pick up the slightest of pebbles. He breathed out in relief and nearest the first of the giants.

The stone was surrounded by two circular arrangements of gravel, the tight embrace of the pointy flints deliberate. He admired the shapes, trying to discerned aught else which might translate for him their purpose. But they were silent, not allowing him the least bit of scrutiny. Soon, excitement waning, Jon turned to the more imposing structure, gazing with interest at the carvings that could barely be made out from underneath the armour of moss encasing it. They did not seem to him letters or even numbers, for the jagged shapes bore no order. They were all over, pushing over one another, crashing into violent overlaps, causing deep wounds in the hard body upon which they’d been tattooed. Might be man and nature had worked together. For what purpose Jon remained in the dark, yet he traced the shapes with eager fingers, feeling the edges around the dips grazing his pads. Even the cold was bearable when his mind was preoccupied with other matters. Thus he remained studying the caprice of man carved into immortal witness.      

Jon stepped from stone to stone, trying his best not to dislodge any of the myriad of smaller pebbles with his shuffling. He'd just finished examining the third one when aught jolted him from the calm state. It was a strange sound, like nothing he'd heard before. A sort of footfall, he reckoned, but heavier, determined even. Caution sharpened into focus. He easily determined the direction the disturbance came from and shimmied himself the opposite way. Without second thought Jon his behind a tall-standing stone, waiting with baited breath for whatever stalked these lands to show itself.

The shuffling of feet grew closer, raining down flinty unease. Stomach coiling into a cold knot, Jon peeked from behind his hiding place. Someone was most definitely approaching. Or rather someone. The bipedal humanoid shape was but a dark shadow, shoulders just above the flowing green waves. And yet Jon could not help but be I'll at ease with its fast approach. His feet had met fierce opposition from the plant life about, but whatever drew nearer seemed to have no difficulties. Before long it would be upon him.

His prediction proved accurate when the figure, easily identified as an ancient crone upon inspection, came to a halt at the edge of the tall grass circle. She was gazing at the structure with no small measure of disquiet. Jon found that peculiar. Was she, like him, caught in some vision? But nay, that did not seem accurate. The woman showed no confusion, just apprehension. Her eyes roamed over the lines and dents. A shrill, whistling like sound left her clenched teeth, teeth that were almost unnaturally bent, as though someone had punched them out and hastily placed them back, their yellow colour inspiring no amount of fate in her.  

She stepped into the circle and raised her hands towards the skies. Jon retreated further away, out of her line of sight should she glance his way. But he needn’t have worried. She was much too preoccupied chanting low under her breath, her form straightening as if the years were being washed off of her. Unfortunately for Jon, his foot caught on a sharp rock and he tumbled to the ground with a clear thud. The crone’s piercing eyes were upon him when he looked up, two cold chips of burning darkness unrelenting in their scrutiny. He inhaled tremulously, fingers digging into the soft earth. It gave way to the prodding digits. The woman stood, dragging her feet across the distance between them, face twisting with every step she took as though she were in great pain. His eyes widened. In the back of his mind Jon could hear warning bells toll. He wanted run. He needed to. But his body was frozen in place. Her eyes clung to him.

And then it all changed. The woman before him stopped. She looked at aught behind him. Jon craned his neck as well in hopes of catching a glimpse even of whatever had attracted the attention of the creature.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

The midwife held the babe to her bosom and glanced towards the maester. “She babbles like a madwoman. Aught about some flowers. A bunch of them.” She sighed as if telling him once more the whole list pained her. “It sounded as though she’d attempted to rid herself of the babe.” Osric blinked, not interrupting the torrent of words spewing from the midwife’s mouth. “Naught I can do for that one. When the child crowned, he broke her. Best to get her a septon, good maester.”

The believer within him agreed with the sentiment. The woman needed a speton more than she had need of any brew. Even with aught to congeal the blood faster, several days had kept her abed and oozing odd coloured liquid, much too dark. He’d not helped her though; merely called for the midwife to whom the woman seemed to have confessed.

After she’d run though her words, the midwife scowled. “There’s many a woman in the village waiting upon me. I can only stay this long.” Unease speared her every motion. He supposed it had to do with the words she’d been told. She was not enough of a fool to believe the servant woman had wished to purge herself of the babe. She’d have done it long before. Nevertheless, even the pesky midwife knew better than to make any comments upon the inherent strangeness of it.

He took the child from her arms and nodded his head. “I’ll have the coin sent by the morrow.” If she thought aught of it, the woman did not let him know. She merely gave a sharp nod and started up the stairs, her long legs covering miles at a time, as though she could not wait to leave the damp dark place. He could not blame her. It was no place of beauty and wonder to which Lord Rosby had consigned the former servant of his good-sister. And why should he not when the woman has lost every lick of sense she’d ever possessed. Confined to a small chamber with only a bed and a long stool for candles and the rations of food she received, Betha had simply fallen deeper into whatever madness possessed her. And that was when the eerie discoveries started. The madwoman, as the midwife had called her, began speaking of ghosts and betrayal. Lord Rosby had seen her, he’d even listened. Osric had heard it all as well.  He was fairly surprised that he’d not hanged her.  But his master had made it clear that she was to birth her child and only after should they settle upon a fitting punishment. He’d accepted that, and continued supervising her.

The babe in his arms squirmed. Osric waited no longer to enter the small bedchamber which held the mother. Betha was mumbling to herself. Her words were hardly coherent and the waxen face she presented left little doubt that her candle was swiftly burning out. It made no matter what punishment they devised. Her mind was gone. 

He worked around the bed and placed the babe somewhere near the woman. There was no cradle. His lord did not mean to keep the child. Osric closed his heart off against the mild compassion stealing upon him. It would not do to give too much of himself away. He sat on the edge of the bed, touching a hand to her shoulder, shaking her gently. “Wench, enough babbling.” But Betha merely glanced at him. Her lips paused midspeech. Her unfocused gaze lingered upon his own face. “Tell me about the flowers.”

“Flowers?” One of her hands caught into the twisted sheets. “Flowers.” The pitch of her voice changed. “There are no flowers. Ghosts don’t leave flowers.” She waved her free hand. The other one was still trapped. He caught her wrist and slowly disentangled the limb. Her eyes darted to the child. “Ghosts leave children.” Her ghost certainly would. Osric did not tell her that much. He patted her shoulder once more.

It seemed he’d hear naught from her any longer, for she twisted away from him and the babe, huddling beneath the furs and covers. Before long she was talking to herself once more, her voice soft, seemingly young, like a child’s. Nay, there was naught he could do other than follow through with his instructions. Thus, he stood and picked up the child once more. The babe fussed lightly but did not break out into jarring weeps. He had no time, for Osric was at the door in a couple of steps and opened it. The forlorn creak rang throughout the hall.

Without a couple of servant women waited. As instructed. Osric’s shoulders lowered in relief. One of them, the one with both hands free, came to take the child. She held the babe carefully and rocked him back and forth, whispering sweetly, as women oft did when confronted with such sights. The other one sighed softly and held out the tray. A single cup was upon it. In her other hand she held a pitcher. “It shall help her sleep, upon my soul,” she promised. “Always helped me mother.”

He took hold of the cup and then received the pitcher from her hands. “You may leave. Await our lord’s word.” They both nodded and made their way up the stairs, leaving him alone with the patient. In the ensuing silence, he looked down upon the pitcher. Within, dark liquid shivered with his gentle movements.  The aroma wafting to his nose was soft, inviting even; sweetness sticking to the back of his throat. He inspected the tea for a few moments. The innocuous drink awaited to be poured and tasted. He sighed softly and made his way back into the chamber. Both the pitcher and the cup were placed upon the long stool.  

Betha’s back was turned to him. She spoke quietly to herself. The soft stream of words unspooled. He heard a name, one that was not unfamiliar, yet told him naught, Convincing himself they were simply the murmurs of a broken mind, he returned to his task.

Osric withdrew from his sleeve a small bottle and poured two drops in the cup. The tea came sloshing over the rim, drowning the droplets, washing them from sight. He pursed his lips, his manner thoughtful, Two drops, he was fairly certain would not damage the servant woman beyond repair, and yet, in her state it might have unforeseen consequences.  Nevertheless, she would drink every last drop and the rest remained in the hands of the gods.

Turning his attention to the crumpled form on the mattress, he approached the bed.

Round shoulder quivered gently. He turned her around with careful movements and whispered soothingly at the wide-eyed gaze filled with horror. He assured her naught ill would befall her. Holding the cup to his lips, Osric instructed her to part her lips and take a sip. “’Tis good tea.” She hesitated, just for a moment. Betha hummed in the back of her throat, the thick sound trickling like honey. Her lips opened slowly, parting like the petals of a flower under the sun’s touch. Her throat worked to down the oncoming liquid, wincing every now and again. He allowed her pauses between sips.

After having swallowed might be half of the content of the cup she moved her head, tea spilling over onto her front.  Coughs made their way out of her mouth. He simply wiped the excess moisture from her mouth and tsked softly. “Have a care. You’ll choke.” A frail nod was his only reply. “Have a little more.”

Once she’d taken every last drop in, he pulled the cup away and lowered her back against the pillow. No sound left her lips. She gazed at him with an innocent look in her still wide eyes. There was no more fear to speak of.  Her mouth opened, as if to make some request, but she never managed to. The concoction he’d given her worked like a charm. Lids sagged, muscles softened and fogginess took over. She had her eyes closed and her chest moving up and down in a slow rhythm, a quiet wheezing sound accompanying her slumber.

Deciding against remaining to watch over her, Osric was back on his feet within moments and heading for the door. The hallway was abandoned when his feet met the flagstone. He made his way up the spiralling stairs and returned to his own chamber. The door closed behind him.

Osric managed to read a number of missives and check upon some accounts, the thick ledger opened about halfway through number of pages. Naught caught his attention. With the exception of a small mistake scrawled on the top of a page, he found little to distract him. Before long, he knew, he would be returning to the small chamber and the sleeping woman.

He went on with his tasks.

His door opened and Lord Rosby stood there. Osric glanced up at him, an unspoken question upon his lips. The other man simply nodded. Osric sighed. But he could not protest.

Gyles Rosby entered the chamber fully and took his seat upon a chair. He worried his fingers for a few dragging moments. “I want to be sympathetic to her plight.” On his face a flash of pain added sincerity to the words. “The midwife thinks she is not long for this world. The fever will set in soon. It would be kinder to not allow her any suffering.” He was debating the matter, not with Osric, with himself, however.

Osric did not interrupt. He gazed at his master sharply, silently contemplating how many droplets it would take to have her go to sleep and never resurface from the world of dreams. Three or four for good measure. The whole bottle would likely cause her heart to explode within her chest. He held back a huff and shuffled some paper on his desk as quietly as he could.

“If she lived,” he trailed off, one hand rising. “If she survives, if she speaks again, those words she told us, there shall be repercussions beyond any price I envisioned when I accepted my brother’s plan. I cannot take that risk. Whatever ghosts haunt my good-sister,” he chuckled at that, as though he’d made some witty jest, “it would be best to keep our distance unless called upon. And the servant, well, there is little I can do for her.”

“The child ought to be sent away. If my lord should wish it, we can place him with one of the families who’d recently lost a young one. For a few coppers, they’ll take him on. Should Lady Lyanna ever ask,” he offered without blinking. It seemed to him as though the woman would feel better or less remorseful about the matter if the child was in the care of someone she could look into whenever it suited her.

“It might be for the best.” The lord shifted in his seat. “There will be talk as is.” Osric nodded. “See who would be willing to take the babe in then and let me know. But for now, I want this matter solved.” He remained seated as his fingers interspersed. Osric watched him silently, blinking every now and again.

The bottle had remained in the woman’s bedchamber. And there was still tea to put a few drops in. He stood. “My lord.” The man nodded; a dismissal and an order all in one. It took no more to understand the lord would not come with him.

Accepting his fate, Osric left for the winding hallways and the staircase, entering the level holding the servant woman. He entered the tiny bedchamber without a problem. Betha still slept. He worked around the bed and picked up the cup. The bottle was where he’d left it. Osric negotiated the dosage. He finally settled on five drops. The tea followed suit. He stirred the drink slowly, taking his time.  Once done, he moved towards the bed. Wheezing could be heard, the light sound telling. May the Father forgive him and his master for taking the law into their own hands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

He charged ahead, peeking to see whether she followed or not. But he was assured in his victory, seeing that Cersei’s mare galloped after his charger, the slender creature huffing and puffing in her attempt to keep up. No one hurried after them, not even the guards. It was all flowing smoothly. He would have her where he wanted her within a few short moments. They were fast approaching the clearing, hooves pounding against the cracking ice. Patience, he told himself, a little bit of patience; it would get him far.

A wide tree stood in the middle of the smooth field of snow. Rhaegar stopped at the clearing’s edge, eyes upon the thick trunk shooting towards the heavens. Cersei stopped at his side, her beast awash with sweat.

He dismounted and helped her down as well. The thick material of her dress was smooth against his palm, soft wool encasing what he could only assume to be willing flesh. Rhaegar looked into her eyes, ever so gently pulling her along, negotiating their way towards the protective crown of bared limbs. She never uttered even the softest of protests. Cersei’s fingers locked around his, skin warm, burning as if a fever held her in its grip.

Rising, she locked her free arm around his shoulders, bold in her invitation. “Finally alone,” she sighed against his lips, the whisper a puff of steam.  He kissed her slowly, pushing away his unease. It certainly helped matters that she responded with blistering vigour. Her other arm wrapped around him as well as he pinned her against him.

They parted for air.

Rhaegar released her. “Might be it would be wise to return,” he suggested, imbuing regret into those words. Her eyes widened in silent protest. He blinked, pretending not to catch on. But Cersei was not about to give up.

“Your Majesty should not toy with my heart,” the lioness protested. Holding tightly onto him she pressed her front against his. Her warning, for he could not rightly call it a request despite the tone, lingered between them along with the numbing chill.

“Aye. I do not suppose you would stand for that.” Cersei shook her head in acknowledgement, curls bouncing with the movement. If there were any sunlight streaming through the leaden skies, it would be shining like a treasure trove, undoubtedly a stunning sight. He remained attached to her. “If we pursue this any further, I –“

Whatever he’d meant to say was interrupted by two charging beasts and a couple of determined looking siblings. The youngest Stark had the gall to pretend sheepish horror. The elder, Rhaegar supposed, not as skilled in his delivery, contented himself with a scowl. He’d not acknowledged any of their earlier attempts at interrupting, but it seemed Lyanna’s brothers were about as thick as the best shields known to men. Cersei pulled away with a petulant pout, a glare in her eyes.  He was tempted to follow suit. Before he could do so, the two delivered their apologies.

“Begging pardon, Your Majesty, we must have lost our way.” Benjen’s triumphant look told an entirely different tale. Short of having both of them chastised, he merely gave Cersei a slight push in the direction of her horse.

“’Tis naught of great import,” he answered unrepentantly in defiance to the look in Eddard Stark’s eyes, “I imagine you simply mistook the woods for home. ‘Tis difficult to tell the difference with all this snow.”

Benjen chuckled. “We are not nearly that savage, Your Majesty.” Ever unamused, Eddard chose to frown. “You’ve never travelled far North, if I recall, aye?”

He nodded and glanced towards Cersei. She was seated atop her beast. He made his way to his own, offering answer. “Might be I shall someday soon. If only to see proof of your words with mine own eyes.” There was no mistaking the intent behind their actions. What Rhaegar wondered though was why Arthur had not stopped them. He knew well enough they did not take particular joy in his apparent courtship of Cersei, nor had he expected them to, but his friend ought to have been dealing with their grievances. Likely as not, Arthur was much too busy laughing. He grimaced at the thought.

“Afeared of the wild beasts roaming in the North?” Once more the younger sibling’s voice filled his ears just as he’d settled atop the charger. He glanced over his shoulder. “One does meet the occasional predator.”

“Not particularly. I trust it makes for excellent hunting ground though.” He inclined his head in polite dismissal. But neither brother seemed to be done.

“And Your Majesty seems ever so fond of the hunt,” Eddard spoke. He scrupulously kept his eyes away from the withdrawing woman. “’Twould be a pity never to avail oneself of the opportunity.” Not as daring as the youth, he reckoned, but not without daring. And he’d though Brandon Stark was the most dangerous one. Apparently he would need to keep his wits about him when these two were about. If only to make certain he’d not wasted days pretending to be a lovelorn fool.

“It would,” he agreed without missing a beat. “I shall consider it with utmost care.” He held back a smile. Thinking about it, hunting in the North was a rather welcomed notion. Especially if the prey he had in mind would be anywhere nearby. Aught told him she would.

Benjen blinked. His brother pursed his lips. Had they expected a different answer? It made no matter. “Sers, we should continue with the ride.” He directed his steed with a sharp tug on the reins and would have dug his heels into the beast’s flanks, riding away, had he not heard the horn. The shrill cry had him halting the animal and turned about.

The sound came once more. The Starks looked behind them as well, their horses moving in unison. Rhaegar could make out a rider approaching. Someone who was not part of his party, but bore the distinct garb of messenger. Someone, in any other words, of the Red Keep.

His heart plummeted straight into his boots. It could be no good cause which drove the man here.  The rider stopped before him, between the brothers, breathing hard. The horse looked worn, as if he’d ridden the poor beast ragged.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [ Aurora_Martell](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Aurora_Martell/pseuds/Aurora_Martell), for being inspirational pure and simple.


	22. Winding Lines

 

 

 

 

 

 

His protector mystified him. Jon could only look in stupefied wonder at the woman. Never before had he felt such warmth spilling over from another person into him. And for the life of him he could not understand why it was that his whole being gravitated towards her. But the female stepped past him, interposing her body between his own and the hag’s, until Jon could only see the fine curtain of silver strands. Yet again he’d been saved from peril by a stranger.

She spoke. “Hath gods given leave that you might roam these planes according to your whim, or did you think, foul one, to rip the tender hope from our breasts? Back. Back, I say, beast.” He was certain he’d heard the tongue before. But he could not place it. It was as though his mind had on its own translated the meaning into his brain without participation of his ears.

The predator back away slowly, the sound of hooves marking her steps. Eyes widening, Jon looked at her legs and at her footprints. Hoofed, the fork burnt into the soft loam. Opposed with the unknown saviour his tormentor abandoned the pursuit and like a shadow slunk away with uneven movements, as though the rigidity of her form was beginning to lose consistency.

Turning around to face him once more, the woman held a hand out, beckoning with her gaze. “I have waited long to meet you, and longer yet to feel your presence in this world.   “Would that my kith and kin knew as well the treasure in their hands. But that is not their way. Never has been.” She spoke as though he was meant to know what she was referring to. Confusion broke across his features, her tingling laugh both soothing and frustrating.

“Who are you?” Her smile widened and she hauled him up, dusting him with drawn-out movements. “You have a name, do you not?”

“I’ve a name, although we’ve no need of names here.” Did that mean he was not going to be given it? The female let go, allowing him to see to his own balance. Jon floundered a little until he found his feet. “But I shan’t speak it.” Her fingers curled in his hair, the motherly stroke subtly at odds with the plethora of menacing female foes he’d met of late. “Names have power and you would be best served to keep yours close to your heart. Never give it away.”

“Why?” He blinked up at her and instinctively reached out to grab onto the folds of her skirts. The thin material felt like water underneath his fingertips, cool and smooth.

“You do not know?” She bent over him slightly, framing his face between her hands. “I thought he might have told you. The Raven may at times omit what is truly important. “I shall speak it then, here you must be no one other than the Prince.

That was worse. Mayhap she had him confused with another boy altogether. “I am not a prince.” He would have offered up Aegon’s name but the idea struck him that despite her benign appearance, the woman might well wish them all ill. “My father was a lord and my mother the daughter of a lord. I cannot possibly be a prince.”

“It was never required that your realm confer such a title. What matters is that you’ve within you both ice and fire.” She grabbed him by the shoulder and instructed him to close his eyes. “There is aught you must see. And if that should not convince you naught else might.”      

More curious than convinced, Jon listened to the low chant, not truly understanding what she said. But he felt all barriers falling apart around him. Worse yet within him the walls he’d learned to erect were slowly crumbling. The void broke out beneath them, Jon needed no eyes to see the gargantuan blackness poised to swallow him away from existence. The monster’s maw gaped open and within the two fell. His very beings was cleared away layer after layer until all that remained was his soul and hers, melting together, seeping into each other.

The fabric of the reorganised itself around them, separation him from her. Jon forced his lids apart and was greeted by a most peculiar sight. A young woman knelt by a mound, like the ones he’d seen in the Valley of the Heroes. With her was a boy, long-faced, sorrow-laden in his sniffling, the child clutched to his chest an egg-like shape. He called out to the woman but she did not flinch. Instead she continued in her task, lips moving ever so slightly.

After what seemed like an interminable amount of waiting, her eyes did open. Jon flinched at their dead colour, hauntingly flat; unseeing. She rose and pulled from her belt a knife. Her hand spread towards the child and she crooked all four of her fingers. The boy cautiously stepped around her and placed the egg upon the mound. It sunk in the snow, half covered. In the bright sunlight Jon could make out scales. Unlike the eggs he’d seen before, the scales upon his newest discovery resembled glass. Their sharpness had been cut away, the firmness lost.

The woman cut open her palm, deep gash releasing rivulets of blood upon both the grave and the egg. The boy stepped back and called out once more. A warning. A name. Jon understood little other than the fear in his voice. But the woman stood firm, furthermore making a second cut upon her arm. It bled as well. She did the same to her other hand and arm before falling to her knees. Her very last act was to plunge the dagger into her middle, at which point Jon noticed the roundness.

“It was to be a boy,” his companion told him. “Can you feel him? Ice trickles trough the veins of the mother.” Jon could feel the soul actually. It was weak, as though its hold was feeble upon the flesh.

The egg cracked open with less noise than he would have expected and from within a silver shape peeked over the shell. The mother waited not a moment for her fingers to wrap around the babe and slit its throat. The blood she spilled upon her own son, back and thick, smearing it over snow-white skin. The child wept, for death had come to the woman’s door as well. Droplets of blood landed on his lips.

“There is power in names and there is power in blood. And yet more power in magic. Do you want to now who this boy is?” The hand on his shoulder tightened its grip. He nodded. “A prince. The world is old and the perils it has faced many. But there has always been a beacon of hope.  Those who’ve loved these lands once upon a time fought for them even from beyond the grave. That time is past. The heroes no longer feel and ‘tis time for others to come and take their place.”

He did not look a prince. Jon wrinkled his nose, disbelief pouring off of him in waves. “Then they must not have been heroes in truth,” he offered somewhat sullenly, watching a white leaf fall over the boy’s forehead as he looked to the dying woman. “Heroes are righteous and upstanding. They would not harm innocents nor allow it in their presence. If he is a prince, then he ought to have stopped this.”

“He did,” the mysterious woman assured him.

Before his eyes, the landscape shifted and the boy as well until a man stood in his stead, a child of his own, by the looks of him, holding an egg. The man gave a few drops of his own blood as sacrifice, just as his mother had done before him, but the rest came from a bucket.

Another egg hatched, the dragonling within crawling out all on its own. Jon grimaced in preparation for what he thought might follow.

The man’s son cupped the creature in his hand and trailed a finger along its spine with a cooing sound. He spoke in his own strange tongue. The dragonling croaked, nuzzling against the boy’s cheek.

A great shadow loomed in the skies, a dragon the likes of which Jon had never seen before. It did not land, nor paid them much mind, but it allowed for as long perusal. “Fire-breathers are somewhat smaller, are they not?” his companion contemplated. “Many have been the ones who sought to conquer these beasts; few managed to find them and even fewer to tame them. The line of ice is very thin. And on this day the line of fire matches it. But they have once more come together to create a prince. It would be monstrous of you to not accept your role. The prince of ice and fire is one among millions; the comet among stars. You’ve not the right to throw the legacy of the gods away.”

The flawless explanation impressed him but little Jon supposed her words made sense from a certain perspective, if he dug hard enough. But then, the point was for it to be clear. “Storm tie better to water than to fire. And water forms ice. I am but ice and water, whatever you may think.”

“You are ice and fire child. As sure as the sun rises in the east. Some truths being no joy.” He sighed and shook his head. “I have no wish to reveal to you what is best left hidden. Know but that the world is at war and someday, someday soon, the battle shall find new front and it will be upon your doorstep. Fate cannot be imposed. Some princes never achieve their goals, some are too cowardly to even try and some give up, preferring death. It is torment to be a saviour, to have knowledge and power.”

“What happens to them if they do give up? I thought they were not allowed to.” Pearly teeth flashed from behind rosy lips.     

“To have not the right is not to have not the option. A man may chose to do good or evil, despite the law of the gods that they do good. But those who give up face the gods. And the gods know not of mercy and kindness. They know of their own desires, ambitions and games. Ask no more.”

He did not, despite wishing to. So many people were telling him such different things. He felt rather like a ship lost at sea which the gale pushed and pulled in whichever direction it desired. As though he was a piece of a board, moved left and right. Jon liked that not one bit. There had to be a way to circumvent all the codified speech. Someone had to know how to explain it in simple terms.

Before he could ponder the matter too carefully, sharp pain cracked through his shoulder, forcing him back into a familiar body. Jon gave a low moan and opened his eyes only to be greeted by the dark stare of Princess Rhaenys whose worried expression spoke volumes. “I have been calling you and calling you and calling you,” she chided. “Lazy bones, you’ve slept long enough. If I can get out of bed so can you.” She ordered him to his feet a second time, following that with a stern look.

“Aunt Ellaria will send for the horse-doctor otherwise to bleed you. He has a knife this big.” To emphasise her point, she threw her arms far apart.

Jon rubbed the sleep away from his eyes, walking unsteadily towards the stool where a pitcher rested. Rhaenys poured some water into his hands. “That scar of yours looks as though you’ve been rubbing it too. The skin might burst.” She jabbed a finger into the soft flesh. Jon felt no pain at her prodding. “I was worried you’d caught a fever as well.” A frown bloomed upon her face.

“Nay, no fever,” he hurriedly assured her, finishing with the washing. “A night terror is all. Haven’t you ever had any?”

“Many. Father always allowed me to come to him though. He said mother needed her rest and I should not disturb her.” At the mention of the Queen, deep pools of pitch grew wet and glistening. Not knowing what to say, Jon grabbed her by the hand and pulled her along, without into the corridor. His instincts told him she would not weep before strangers with much ease.

Rhaenys did not disappoint. Her composure came swiftly upon the heels of her previous outburst. “If you wish to, you can tell me about the night terrors. But never tell Aegon. He hasn’t learned it is not appropriate to laugh at others yet.”

Much doubting the child would be doing any laughing, Jon cleared his throat. “I do not wish to speak of it. I only want to forget.” Lack of knowledge still frustrated him. Pushing that aside for more mundane events was already difficult enough. To further burden himself with analyzing the content of these strange encounters, Jon thought he might possibly drive himself mad. And where would that leave him?

The small hall where Ellaria waited for them was occupied by very few people.  The Dornishwoman beckoned them over, patting the space to her right. Aegon was already seated to her left, eating from his trencher with all the grace of a starving animal. All those tears must have done him ill.

Jon joined Rhaenys upon the stool and looked at his own trencher. He stabbed at the cut bits and pieced, noting with interest that a few circles of red dotted the space. Curiosity prompted him to pick one of them up. He sniffed it, much in the manner Darys would his food, and then popped it in his mouth, chewing.

Upon first contact, he felt naught, not until whatever it was reached his inner cheek, scraping against the side of his tongue. That was when fire erupted in his mouth, a wave of blood rushing to his cheeks. He swore his own face burst into flames. Tears form in the corners of his eyes and he began choking.

A hand slapped roughly against his back, concerned voices focusing on his predicament. He heard but the rush of his own blood. “Give the poor boy some water, for pity’s sake. He’ll choke to death.”

The cool liquid made it past his lips, smoothing its way down a slightly relieved path. The one thing he regretted was that it did not rid him of the pesky burning feeling completely. At the very least he was not going to die of it. On that note, Jon sputtered out a sequence of unintelligible words to which the general response was a compassionate coo, presumably from Rhaenys who was seated closest to him.

“Poor child,” he heard the sole adult in whose care they were. “You should have said you’d never had any Dornish pepper before. I would have warned you.” That was particularly useless. How was he supposed to know Dornish pepper would cause him such grief in the first place? Chances were naught red in colour would ever hold his trust again.

To avoid further injury to already abused tissue, Jon separated the peppers away from the rest of his food with painstakingly careful motions. Rhaenys chipped in every now and again, picking the discarded peppers and swallowing them with a look of pure delight. Jon suppressed the urge to shudder.  “How can you eat those?”

She shrugged and motioned towards Aegon. He as well had no trouble. “On Dragonstone we used to have some every time we broke our fast. The maester thought they kept illnesses away. Might be if you took a little at a time, you’d like it better.”

“I will pass.” Jon would be the first to admit that any and all resources he possessed were best used in ridding himself of inconveniences. Granted, he knew not many. But for the moment they numbered Daenerys, Dornish peppers and recalcitrant dragons. And they all had aught in common. His eyes widened at the prospect of it not being a mere coincidence. “Mayhap another time.”

Rhaenys pursed her lips but did not press him any further. Instead she removed the last pepper from his plate and deposited it in her mouth. “Just remember that I have done you a favour and expect it returned.”

His solemn nod seemed enough for her. “I shan’t miss the opportunity.” With the way matters stood, he would have plenty of time to return it and even more to might be indebt her to him. Jon contemplated that for a few moments, pushing his food back and forth.

In the end though he had no recourse but to eat what he’d been given and join into a quiet conversation with Aegon’s sister. She was wondering where her uncle had gone, since his absence now stretched over a good long period of time.

Aegon snorted. “He is escorting mother, stupid. Someone has to and it certainly wouldn’t be you. Can’t even sit a horse right.”

“I can,” Rhaenys argued. “Unlike you, who is afraid to even approach one.”

“Am not,” the Prince denied fiercely.

“Children, now is not the moment. His Grace has ridden ahead, Rhaenys, as your brother said so that all preparations are made according to custom. I thought it best that we made for Sunspear slower. No doubt your younger brother shall appreciate that.”

Daeron. Jon looked about for the nursemaid and the babe. He saw naught of them. But then the babe was safe enough with the woman and unaffected by the tragedy, which was more than any of them could boast of. The little Prince was most probably still trying to catch a strip of cloth. If only they could return to better days.

“Pass me the salt, won’t you?” Aegon said, breaking the coherence of Jon’s musings.          

 

 

 

 

 

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lol. This world...
> 
> Right: Norse mythology, proto-monotheistic thinking and disillusionment.


	23. Cling To Something Higher

 

 

 

 

 

 

His good-daughter excused herself with a slightly pained look, her curtsy, for all the grace she displayed even when heavily pregnant, not top form. Rickard took that with mild concern and nodded to the servant which had brought the tea to follow her out. “Might be it would be well to have a maester look her over.” The servant offered no protest. Likely as not, he and the rest of his station worried with the addition of the new dragon that more unfortunate accidents would see them displaced. He could not rightly blame them.

His eyes followed the man until he was out of sight. The King would be returning soon and he would be expected to give a report over how the situation could have developed thusly. One of the lesser appreciated duties he now had to contend with. Rickard lifted the stack of documents and thumbed them into conformity. He palmed the smooth edges to ensure a neat shape before pushing them towards the edge. And speaking of Rhaegar Targaryen, the man had best come up with a solution to the tangle he’d left behind to very conveniently see to whatever plan he’d come up with.  

“Lord Lannister to see the Lord Hand,” a voice called from without, breaking the chain of thoughts.

Tywin Lannister had come to him directly. What an interesting choice. He allowed the man entrance and stood to greet him. It had been long since he’d seen the Lion. The gods knew Rickard almost forgot the queer feeling one got whenever staring too long at that face. “My lord, superb timing.”

The other nodded, a polite noncommittal reply. “King’s Landing had barely changed during my absence. And yet I find it very much changed indeed. My most sincere congratulations on taking the office, Lord Stark.” The flat tone of his voice left little to the imagination.

“Someone had to,” he answered in a like voice. He gestured towards the padded chair and sat down in his own. “I take it ‘tis not a social call you make, my lord. I pray you, tell me the reason of your arrival.”

One eyebrow rose in an arch show of frankly disturbing confidence. “You would be wrong in your assumption. This matter I would gladly discuss at a later date. Nay, I have a request to make. If you could possible bear it, of course.” The devilish glint in his eyes should have warned Rickard that naught pleasant would come out of this conversation. He nodded, despite any better notions. “Very well then. I shan’t take up much of your time. I imagine the subject will not be unexpected.”

“Let us proceed then.” He brought his hands onto the smooth tabletop, resisting the urge to drum his fingers against it. It would not help in this situation anymore than it would in another completely different one. Still, best not to avoid it. An untimely display of nervousness was a sure way to lose his advantage. “What is it that you wish to speak of?”

“A small matter indeed. It concerns someone close to you, my lord.” The hairs on the back of his neck stood. Someone close to her, the man said, his face retaining a rather cruel edge to it. There were so many possibilities, but one worried him more than the others put together. “Your heir, my lord, has taken something which does not belong to him.”

“Brandon?” That would have been the perfect moment to allow himself a flurry of questions, but Rickard chose not to, Clamping his lips over the stream of words, stopping their flow prematurely. Instead, he met the steady gaze of his only company at present and refused to beat a hasty retreat. “It must be a mistake of some sort, my lord.” What else was there to say to such an accusation? Rickard thought the words over, trying to understand what it was that Lord Lannister hoped to catch him with.

“Nay. I am not mistaken,” the man assured him. “Your heir took with him a maiden meant to wed one of my lords.” That did not seem a thing Brandon was capable of.

“My son is wedded, Lord Lannister. What need would he have of this maiden you claim he’s stolen?” It was an absurd thought. His son, taking someone else’s betrothed. Rickard expected it to be some sort of misunde3rstanding. “And who is this maiden?”

“Lord Ashwood’s child, Lady Hawys.” Lord Ashwood was not unknown to him, but Rickard could not claim knowledge of the lady. He pursed his lips in gentle a show of considering the information. “As I understand it, she was on her way to see the wedding through.”

“And who is the man my son has presumably slighted?” There had certainly been some sort o acquaintance between Brandon and the girl. He was supposed to have seen to a matter regarding Lord Ashwood. Presumably, that was when this scheme entered the world.

“Ser Gregor Clegane.” Another name which was meant to put fright in the hearts of men. Rickard would lie were he to claim a lack of consternation at this revelation. The Mountain was not an enemy to0 be trifled with. “I have for the moment managed to keep the peace with my promise of resolving the matter. But the man would be well within his rights to challenge your son.”

The night terror of any father. Rickard was not about to give in at such a small amount of prodding. He was beginning to see where the matter was headed. “I see. I should like little better than to aid, but I must first and foremost look into the matter myself.” That ought to tie this over until a more appropriate moment.

Tywin Lannister nodded, unaffected by the delay. “One would not dare ask for more. Still, I suggest not taking too long. Such delicate matters could have potentially disastrous outcomes.” With the Mountain involved, Rickard did not doubt that for one single moment. Nevertheless, he offered a grim expression by way of reply and exchanged a few more lines until Lord Lannister took his leave of him.  In lieu of having managed to find out more about the Mountain’s plans, as Lord Lannister seemed reluctant to reveal anything, he had to consider the very worst and make plans.

But firstly, he should find out what exactly it was that Brandon had done. No matter how much Rickard believed his son would never do aught so foolish, there were many a way in which the matter could be put so as to obtain one outcome over another. What remained to be seen were the circumstances in which it had taken place. Rickard picked up his quill, balancing it between his thumb and index finger. The smooth brush of fuzz against his fingers gave him a moment’s pause. If he wrote himself on this matter, the gods only knew how Brandon would react. Better to ask Ashara to do it.

He stood to his feet, placing the quill away upon the end of the thought. He slowly made his way down the hall into the main courtyard without paying much mind to the looks of his guards. Without a few clusters stood apart, courtiers talking amongst themselves. Some stopped to greet him, but none approached. Best that they did not, he hadn’t a lot of patience for their prattling at this point. Instead, he offered a few greeting in return and sidestepped the larger circles. The thrum of life never slowed, no matter what one faced. At least that much was to comfort him, poor thing that it was.

“Lord Hand!” Rickard turned at the sound, meeting the steady gaze of one of the Kingsguards. The knight nodded officiously, the wide clasp on his cloak glinting blindingly. He closed his eyes to rid himself of the strain. “I am to bring you to Her Grace.”

Rhaella Targaryen; the knowledge had him snapping to attention. “It cannot wait?” The other shook his head. “Very well.” He supposed he might speak to his good-daughter at a later date. “Take me to Her Grace then.” Since he had ascended to this position the King’s kin had never demanded to speak to him. Might be it was his luck that she’d shown no interest up until that point.

The Kingsguard lead the way to the inner keep. Rickard had not had reason to travel that particular path, but he followed with nary a word, his mind much too busy finding a reason for the sudden summon. It could be a great number of things, Lord Lannister, the newest hatchling, the Prince or some other issue he’d not even thought about. A most endearing notion to be certain. Still, a surge of curiosity thrummed through him, leaving behind the slight, but common, thread of anticipation. He mounted the stairs in his guide’s wake, the familiarity of the layout taking him by surprise. He’d not expected Maegor’s Holdfast to hold so steadily to the form of its larger protector. Nevertheless, he was not disappointed, for there was much to take in and before long he’d reached the end of his journey.

There seemed to be no need for an announcement, for the knight merely opened the door for him and within waited the wife of the late King. The Queen-mother smiled as she saw him enter, a thin stretch of lips that never quite reached her eyes. She did not stand but then she had no need to. Rickard bowed, eyes discreetly moving to the other occupant of the chamber. The man stood resting against a mahogany desk, his easy manner slightly offset by the stiffness of the woman.

“Your Grace, ser.” He’d seen the man before. Though the circumstances eluded him at the moment, it became apparent that the other knew him as well, for his greeting bow matched his own, though it was less reverence and more curiosity that he saw on the other’s features.

“Lord Hand, I thank you for being so prompt.” She gave a soft nod. “I confess to being unsure of your compliance.” His compliance was never a sure thing, however, for the moment he was content to allow her to believe as she would. “Have a seat.”

“I prefer standing.” Once more he glanced from her face to her companion’s. “I am certain Your Grace has other matters to see to on this day.” As had he. Resisting the urge to cross his arms over his chest, Rickard remained standing, exactly as he’d been before.

“As you wish. I wanted to speak to you about my son.” That did not surprise him. The Queen-mother worried her hands, wringing her fingers still even as the man who’d joined them placed a hand on her shoulder. “I know it would be better-done of me to leave such matters to wiser heads, but I find I cannot ignore it any longer. I must know what His Majesty has told you of his plans.”

As the supposed right-hand man of the realm’s ruler it made sense that she would think thusly. “Many apologies, Your Grace, but ‘tis most ill done of you in this instance. This is no request I can aid with. When His Majesty feels comfortable in revealing his plans, they shall be known. ”

Her lips formed a pout, long lashes batting in disconcert. “My lord,” the protest came on the heel of one harsh breath. “That was uncalled for. I am within my right to worry about my son.”

“With all due respect, Your Grace, he is not a child in need of coddling.” Her brow furrowed. No mother enjoyed knowing herself no longer needed he supposed. Even so, he wrenched every drop of sympathy for her plight away, steeling himself against an attack he was certain would follow.

“How dare you?” she hissed, eyes narrowing into a fierce glare. “Made hand by the grace of your daughter–“

“Rhaella,” the other man cut her off. “You speak too harshly.” The grip on her shoulder loosened until all contact was broken. “My lord, it would be wise to not hold back regarding your knowledge. These are trying times and we are all of us merely worried for His Majesty.”

Regaining her bearing, Rhaella shook her head. “You do not speak for me, ser.” Her clipped tone did not affect her companion. Of aught, he turned to her with a slightly sardonic smile. “I spoke the truth. Do you not think your presence at court had caused enough of a spectacle, my lord? Does it not shame you that your own daughter is the subject of much gossip by her own indiscretion? She had caused my good-daughter much heartache.”

There was no room for sentiment in this discussion; he had to keep his calm. Rickard strove to do just that. “And yet until this very day the subject has not been broached. Your Grace, I am sorry to have offended, but I am first and foremost to answer to the King. As such, I will not share what has been said to me in absolute confidence.” He drew in a sharp breath, testament of the iron will still at battle. “For my daughter I can only say that I am not her keeper, as such I am no more responsible for her actions than any other man.”

Were it possible for looks to kill, he’d be lying in a pool of his own blood, likely maimed. Rhaella Targaryen’s eyes spelled out her displeasure along with the twist of her mouth. “You have no shame.” It was a quiet accusation, slithering forth like a serpent. No less dangerous than if she had bellowed the words was the position he was put in. “Do you think to make a mockery of this court?”

“Truly, the matter is now out of hand,” the knight intervened a second time. “My lord, I overstep, I know it well, but Her Grace is truly worried over this matter and in truth does not wish to have revealed to her any secrets His Majesty wishes you to keep. Can you not give us aught?”

There it was. Rickard did not answer straight away. He allowed the spirits to calm down before he opened his mouth. “Were it possible, I would. But I have said all that I can upon the matter. If you wish for aught else, His Majesty is the man to ask. Let it be his decision how much to reveal.”

The Queen-mother’s jaw worked under the effects of her frustration. “I will not forget this,” she promised, standing to her feet. “Very well, my lord, if you shan’t talk, then I will not keep you any longer. Go now.” And he’d best watch his back. That much was clear without her forming the words, He almost laughed. Not because he doubted her revenge could be just as cruel as her husband’s punishments had once been; but merely because the shock of it permitted little else.     

He left as she commended, sharing one last look with the man whose name he still could not recall. There was a flicker of understanding there, but his allegiance was to the Queen-mother, whatever else he thought of the situation. Knowing the interview was over, Rickard made his way without.

The Kingsguard, having no doubt heard most of the conversation, did little to let on he had a reaction to any of it. Years of experience, he considered. Passing the man by, Rickard was met with his own guards. They were waiting at the foot of the stairs, caught in silent conversation. His arrival disturbed them enough for the words to die down and lose themselves in the hum of life buzzing about the keep.

They allowed him to pass and he did so without addressing a single word to either one. He could return to the solar or find his good-daughter. Frankly, he was not at all disposed to endure any other shocking conversations for the time being. At least until the king returned. Good gods, he desired little more than to close the lot of them out. A pity that was not a possibility. Walys would have had a field day berating him. Not even that did he have any longer.

Tracking Ashara proved an easy task, made even more so by the fact that the door leading to her chambers was blocked by a servant woman holding an armful of sheets. Rickard waited a moment, wondering if she would move. When she failed to do so, he cleared his throat. Startled, the woman let out a shriek and nearly broke her neck twisting her head to look at him. Holding one hand up in a pacifying gesture, he offered a muted apology. “What are you doing here?”

Trembling lips opened and closed upon a word. She managed to get it out after a few tries. “My lady, linens,” at his raised eyebrow she struggled to piece together aught resembling sense, “I was requested to bring linens. The maester told me to.”

There were only so many reasons for which a maester would be required. “Do as you’ve been told then. But I have a task for you as well.” She nodded, all rapt attention. “I would have news of how my good-daughter fares. As soon as the child is born, you must come to me, regardless of the outcome.”

A vague memory needled him, but he brushed it away. It was not the time or place to be considering his late wife. He drew himself away from the servant woman, only half listening to her assurance that she would do as he’d said. Should he send someone after Ned? A fast rider might catch up quick enough but it was past midday already.

Loud footfalls trailed in his direction. Rickard’s gaze focused on the face of a winded boy. “The King’s banner,” the child rasped, “it was seen. He is returned.”

Perfect timing. Rickard allowed his gaze to wonder towards the heavens. The heavy ceiling prevented his access, but still, he gave the gods his gratitude. “Then we must greet him,” he replied with unshakable calm in the face of the youth’s breathlessness. “Come.”      

        

    

 

   

     

 

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wondering if I should pull a Martin. Arya's birth year is still some time off...Will see, I suppose.
> 
> Anyway, the dream interpretation thingy is taking longer than I thought, so I'll leave a few pointers which will be better explained in the ensuing product.
> 
> 1) Visions are not limited to the future. Jon's dreams include a fair share of past events. (Objective; linking Jon to the other 'heroes')
> 
> 2) Just because it's in a vision, doesn't mean it'll come to pass. Some visions come from the 'gods', but not all. This being said, Jon's cousin is not the only false prophet(ess) around.
> 
> 3) Some visions are not even visions, but just dreams. 
> 
> As I said, I don't really but into the whole TPTWP and Azor Ahai and other prophesied being one and the same, so don't place all your eggs in the same basket with this. And even one 'hero' may be split between multiple characters. So, yeah..., there you go.
> 
> Hope this helps.


	24. Dirty Paws

 

 

 

 

 

 

Caught between the wolf brothers, Arthur made small attempt of evading their pointed and doubtlessly harm-filled questions regarding his friend. One of these days he’d have to tell Rhaegar that male relatives were not a desirable trait in his mistresses, if only for the fact that they would see to it that any attempt at conquest would be met with deplorable hard-headedness along with a none too pleasant reactionary attitude. Which ultimately would fall to him and his brother to quell.

“I doubt he means to shame your sister in any manner,” he offered, hoping against earlier failures that the two would listen. Of course he could neither betray Rhaegar’s plan to them, nor expose a more lasting bond between his friend and the woman in question.

“You will, of course, forgive my disbelief on that account,” the dour Eddard Stark dismissed his assurance as before. If the other was more disposed to believe in Rhaegar’s innate goodness, this one presented himself as a bit of a conundrum. He’d have expected it to be the other way around, if only because the younger brother was a good bit wordier, as strange as that had to be. “Honourable intention would have called for discretion, good-brother.” Now that was aught he’d not yet experienced.

Lyanna had not been exactly shy of making use of their relation. But her brother, for reasons unknown, had kept his distance. “He had not been so indiscreet as to merit censure. Surely you’ve known worse.” He gave the man a pointed look. “Might be known it better than you’d dare admit. And there has been no protest to that. Or I do not recall hearing one at any rate.”

The disapproving look he received in reply left him cold in his triumph. He’d found a sure way of attack; one that would not bear rebuke. Dare he venture down the path? Arthur considered the wisdom of it. He rather thought Darya might caution his against it, but Darya was safely ensconced in the company of fellow schemers of her ilk and would not, other than in his mind, offer such steadfast advice. Which was precisely why he threw wisdom to the wind and put his foot down; or rather straight in it, as it were. “It is not up to me to make such judgements, but I find it odd your good-brother never received half as much of your indignation.” 

Someone cleared their throat. The younger brother likely, but Arthur kept Eddard’s gaze as he responded. “I was not privy to the goings-on of my sister’s marriage. I was however exposed to more than I wished to know regarding her liaison.” There was aught the man kept to himself.

“You were privy to your friend’s character,” Arthur goaded, not entirely comfortable with losing the advantage. The Seven only knew when he’d have the chance to confront him again in such a manner.

“He’s got you there, Ned. Robert never truly made a secret of his penchants. Any of them, dare I say.” There was amusement, he sensed, along with a thin stretch of worry. “That, however, my good ser, is not aught we speak about.”

“Whyever not?” he probed undisturbed. “It is the truth of the matter, is it not?” Daring a look to the younger sibling, Arthur arched an eyebrow. “Your sister can’t have made a secret of it. And you good-brother, may the gods rest his soul, can’t would not have. Not with half the bastards in the kingdoms belonging to him.”

“Gross exaggeration on your part,” Benjen deflected, eyes sparkling with unexpected humour. The lad was easily pleased. “The honour is reserved for old Lord Frey, I’ll have you know. And the other Walders. There is aught about the name that reeks of abundance.” Too much abundance, the youth seemed to imply.

“Enough, Benjen,” Eddard chided, apparently not appreciating the timely intervention. “I know very well Lyanna and Robert could not make a happy marriage, but the fault for that does not lie with me. Might be pushing them together was a mistake, but it had been our hope exposure would breed affection.”

Not a bad plan by any means. Arthur allowed himself a moment of silent reflection. “I do not doubt it was with the best intention your sister was tied to the man.” Wilfully blind he could believe of them to possess as a characteristic, but cruel, not so much. Had the lady not accepted the match, eventually they would have not pushed for it. So Arthur would like to believe. 

“Robert was in love with her. I believed his love would be enough to endear him to her. Change him even.” The Quiet Wolf flickered his pondering gaze to the leaden skies. “Lyanna thought different. And she has always been vehement. If my friend’s love ran cold in the face of her walls or if she failed to change him, I cannot know. But Robert was not a bad man.”

Not by anyone’s account, on that much Arthur agreed. He patted his horse’s neck for lack of a more sophisticated reaction. Has his good-sister pushed her husband away. Arthur had not considered the possibility. With how fixed Rhaegar seemed on the woman, he’d assumed she returned to his embrace because of a deep dissatisfaction. Could she have been the one to engineer the downfall of what ought to have been a perfectly amiable relationship? He supposed it was not outside the realm of possibilities; but it was not aught he’d ever know either. Ashara certainly had not indicated aught of the nature. And to ask the lady herself, she would simply claim herself to be the injured party. With a sight, he returned his attention to the older brother.

“I did not know Lord Baratheon as well as you, therefore I shan’t argue as to the decency of his character.” It might well be that Robert Baratheon had been mischaracterised. “I do know your sister was unhappy.” Eddard Stark did not weaver though. He must have known that much as well. For all it mattered.

“Lyanna had always been a complicated young girl,” Benjen offered from his other side. “You wouldn’t know it looking at her. But I can attest to it. I grew up with her, might be more so than either of my brothers. She is my sister, and I will always defend her.”

“But,” Arthur urged when he got the chance, sensing his reluctance would close the subject forever.

“But, many of her spells of discontent over the years were half the work of her own efforts. Do you know, she used to wish for knighthood when we were children.” That did not surprise him. Not overly so. “Wanted to learn how to wield a sword as well, but she nearly cur her own hand off once. Sent father in a devil of a mood and he interdicted it. And what do you think my sister did?”

This was leading to something. But Arthur could not understand what. “I cannot fathom. Of course, never having been a young girl myself, I can only make an uneducated guess at best.”

“She predictably expressed her distress by locking herself in her chamber. I honestly thought she would not come out. More so when I knew she spent the whole time sulking. My sister never was graceful in defeat. I hope you understand why I am telling you this.” In a sense, he did. “Lord Baratheon was Ned’s friend and I’ve no love for him. But some thing one cannot hide from.”

The acknowledgement rankled. “Poor handling all around then. But that is neither here nor there. You, ser, still protest aught which does not merit such censure. For better or worse the situation has come to this. It would be best not to quibble over much at such small details as these.”

“Hard small. Hardly details. My point stands.” No matter what he said, if he did not give them something they would cause a scene. One to end all scenes, by the way they acted.

 “Very well, hardly any of that.” He allowed the reins some slack. “Believe then this which I tell you; your sister’s path is hampered by more than just a few suspicions and if we do not thread with care we risk quite a lot. As with all gambles though, you cannot gain anything for nothing. ”

“His gambling with this important outcome has put me at ease,” the Quiet Wolf declared tartly. At the very least the man was not completely devoid of humour. “Might be it would serve him better to act in this manner whenever he faces a dilemma.”

“Be that as it may.” Arthur waved his hand dismissively in the face of such dissatisfaction. “His course is set. Regardless of whether it is to your liking, ser.”

“I did not expect our feelings would count.” Benjen placed a hand on his shoulder, distracting him. “Better yet, they should not. But he is tampering with Lady Cersei Lannister’s expectations. Even you have to admit the risk is too great. Much too great.”

“I cannot rightly deny it.” But neither was he about to discuss it in further detail. “Nor am I allowed to continue this conversation. In good conscience, you understand.” The brothers shared a look. A difficult feat given he was taller than both and in full armour. But he could not deny it was rather amusing. “Have you any idea why we are rushing back?” he questioned, hoping to divert the conversation, at least until he could find some other excuses to not answer.

Glancing over his shoulder, he met Darya’s gaze. She was riding at the fringe of the group. Not entirely novel; she’d never truly fitted in. Not that the matter gave him pause. Darya had known how her presence at court would play out. He offered her a knowing smile to which she replied with an appropriately saucy wink. Having had enough reassurance of her, Arthur turned away, eyes turning back to the road. 

Benjen had ridden ahead, bringing himself shoulder to shoulder with Richard. They were already in conversation by the time he managed to figure out what had transpired. Which meant he was on his own, as much as such a gathering would permit, with the older one. Eddard was eyeing him with a patent look of distrust. Once more, he did not take it to heart. It seemed to be his natural state of mind wherever Rhaegar was concerned, and he by association was to bear the brunt of it in lieu of his friend.

“Go on then,” he encouraged with the slightest whiff of humour, “ask whatever it is you wish to know of me. Or allow me to ask the questions. Whatever makes you feel better.”

“The end of this will make me feel better,” he answered, as harshly as before. “But I trust you’d already guessed that much.”

Whatever had his sister seen in him, Arthur wondered. Ashara was not a woman without humour. Some would say she suffered from an excess of it, to be sure. Her choice in spouse-material left him flabbergasted for exactly such reasons. There had to have been some reasons, and it could not be dashing charm or wealth. The thought that aught as quaint as love had turned his sister’s head was equally curious. Ashara had been in love, like all young ladies were at some point, but she’d been ever cautious. A Dornish upbringing he supposed. Nevertheless, in the end she’d been charmed by the least likely candidate.

“I begin to suspect you are rather dull, ser. I should warn you such an attitude is usually the culprit for my sister’s sour moods. And I do so love my sister.” He only meant in a half-teasing manner, about his sister’s moods. He was entirely convinced the man was dull as a shallow pond.

Eddard blinked and forced his horse upon the right path when the beast made to move away. “I do not make a habit of exerting myself outside your sister’s company.”

“How positively endearing,” he continued in much the same vein. “My sister must be a very happy woman.”

“I should certainly hope so,” the man offered, the words spilled upon the end of a light sigh. “I for one am very pleased.” Considering this was Eddard Stark, Arthur supposed he ought to take that for high praise indeed.

“I trust she is. The child makes her happier than I’ve ever seen her.” Then again, Ashara had always wanted children of her own. A cart-load if it could be helped. “You are going to be a very busy man if my sister has her way.” A fair warning, he told himself, if only to help the poor man envision his future. “My sister is extremely desirous of a large family.”

A rumble of repressed laughter greeted his statement. “That she never made any secret of. And I find I am not at all inclined to deny her.”

It was to be hoped that he did not ever set himself upon such a path. Ashara had a way about her. She’d get water out of stone if she set her mind to it. The task of convincing her husband to aid her in begetting a nursery full of children was naught but a game, he suspected. Naught to challenge her. Women and their children; positively melting at the sight of them, his sister did. He did, after all, recall coming home to see a newborn Allyria. Needless to say, the sight had not impressed him overly much. Beyond the knowledge that the small lump of pink flesh was his sister, Arthur did not recall living through some epiphany.

His sister, on the other hand, suffice to say Ashara had not kept quiet about her desire to have children of her own for approximately a couple of days after. She’d gone on and on about how cute she was. Arthur had not seen it. As far as he was concerned, the weeping bundle with an unfocused gaze was only that. A weeping bundle with an unfocused gaze. As cruel as that sounded, little children along with puppies and kittens were all the same to him. He did not begrudge his sister the joy she took in either of those though and understood it to be aught innate to a woman’s heart. Most of them anyway. A plague, their lot, but he supposed he was safe, given his current position. He’d have to remember to thank his lucky star.

Given him a sword and a mission though and he was no less enthusiastic than his sister was in the face of her babes. It was most fortunate that he’d ended up where he was. Arthur pushed the thought away momentarily, eyes leaping to the front where his brothers attentively watched their surroundings. Aye, best to be grateful he would never live through such tumultuous emotions. Those were better left to hardier men and the occasional fool who stumbled into it.

All musings aside, he was still very much stuck with the Quiet Wolf and perceived his situation would not improve with time. A fate worse than death, boredom ate at him. It was at about this time that he and Rhaegar would have come up with aught to stave the pestilence. Alas, Rhaegar was no longer free to gallivant about and he himself was supposed to have outgrown such mischief-making.

“I can hear the cogs turning all the way over here, ser,” Eddard warned drily, his gaze cutting into him with sharp precision. The man shook his head. With the way he was, one would never guess his age was anywhere under one hundred. His sister and her frankly strange tastes in men had been pondered over though. Arthur was not desirous of returning to the subject with such haste.

“Some sharp hearing you must have then,” he drawled back, imbuing the whole of his nauseating ennui behind it. “I was merely wondering how siblings can be so very different from one another. You are truly very little like the rest of your pack.”

“And yet very much alike.” When Eddard did not elaborate, Arthur fixed him with a stare.

“I meant beyond the shared colouring,” he offered lightly, well aware it had not been the other’s meaning. Nevertheless, it was all he could put forth on such short notice, on account of his own surprise.

A small smile lifted the corners of the wolf’s mouth. Arthur half expected fangs. Alas, he was to be disappointed. “Never say, ser. I find that most curious. You do not joust, and you seem to hold little love for the hunt, riding is a necessity; so on, so forth. Enlighten me.”

“Flattering as your interest is,” his companion returned flatly, “I am of a mind not to.”

“Have I offended you?” At least he would not be bored. “Very well then. At the very least tell me what you do enjoy doing.”

“Brooding,” he deadpanned.

A brief silence fell between them, the soft lull of its protective nature enough to fool anyone into a sense of security. Anyone who was not in possession of a brain, that was. Eddard Stark was challenging him. Subtly. He would, after all, find much merit in entertaining himself in such a manner, Arthur surmised after a short-lived introspective moment.

“You sound as though you should be in company with His Majesty. The two of you would find much to brood about, I am sure.” Taciturn nature aside, he should make a point of addressing the issue to Rhaegar. “Anything else?”

“Naught which once said would not be taken amiss.” The man did have a sense of humour, a polished one as well, Arthur was finding. And it was dashed good fun wheedling it out of him.

“I will take that to mean there is some dark secret somewhere in there. I do so enjoy a good hunt.” His warning was met with a cold stare. Not that Arthur had expected differently. He grinned in return, but held a hand out in cordial show of respect. “    No need to look at me so.”

“I am trying to determine whether I should be ill at ease,” Nonetheless, he returned the gesture. “And your time is wasted on this hunt. Wolves belong to packs.”

That settled it. He would find out what he wished to. “Some do,” he answered the veiled impediment with good cheer. Of course, he much doubted any of his siblings would willingly give aught away, on account of blood ties being damned thick bindings, but Arthur was as good as any man at unearthing information. This would not be much different.

“You are more like your sister than one would guess at first glance,” the wolf dared after a moment. It seemed he was back to the impassive mask once the immediate threat was past.

He could humour the man and say that he in turn was less like his sister than one would assume, but Arthur was not about to place the cart before the horse. “I have yet to determine whether you resemble your sister, ser, but never fear, I shall endeavour to produce an answer soon enough.”

“That is precisely what I fear.” A strange choice of words. The sentiment conveyed was certainly trepidation. Might be not the kind which left one’s knees weak, yet he could detect the low hum there. There was aught to discover.

Arthur eased himself into another slow smile. “Ashara tells me you are of a mind to return to Winterfell after the child is born.” Best to allow him some breathing space. For the moment.

“Court life ill suits me, though I know your sister is used to it. She did not object to the proposal.”  Did he take that for a failing? Arthur shrugged off the queer thought. “Besides, in Winterfell there will be more than enough to keep me occupied.” And it would be only boring matters which took his attention, Arthur was certain of it.

“You give court too little trust. I assure you this is unusual. Peculiar as your timing is, you must know that life is as boring everywhere.” The reassurance did not seem to impress his good-brother. Arthur went on, “Winterfell itself must be alike.”

“Little alike,” Eddard responded. “If one day you happen by, you will understand.” These Northerners and their lack of expansive emotions. A feature well stuck after what had to be thousands of years of wearing a single bland mask. Might be it was passed on from parent to child.

“If you say so, ser. I will take your word for it.” Undoubtedly they would happen by Winterfell at some point. Knowing Rhaegar, he was simply biding his time.

Hold tightening slightly on the reins, Arthur checked behind him yet again. Darya was yet where he’d left her, in easy conversation, however, with a young man whose face looked about as red as a field of poppies. When would they ever learn not to try taking her on?

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

The last leg of the journey had been more of a torment than Rhaegar was willing to admit. Even to himself. Normally, troubles were met with a mild feeling of irritation at their forever untimely appearance. This explosion of emotions he’d experienced, however, was a far cry from that. It left him feeling a particularly disconcerting shade of helpless. And to that end, he was less inclined to be patient. Which could only cause trouble in the long run. Even now, as he strode through the halls, Rickard Stark in his wake, a report pouring forth from the man’s lips, he wondered if all his work with Cersei Lannister had been undone.

“The situation is, as I said, worth taking note of,” the man went on to reach a close. “That would be all of import which has taken place.”

“And this dragon is behaving like its brethren?” he questioned upon the newest addition to the pile of troubles. Leave it to Viserys to come up with such a scheme. Of all the things the boy could have done in his absence, this was one Rhaegar had expected least.

“Much in the same manner,” his Hand allowed, following Rhaegar within the spacious solar. The door closed behind them, leaving only the two.

Rhaegar took his customary seat, swallowing a sigh. “What happened?”

A knowing look crossed the Northerner lord’s face. But he did not offer aught other than that upon the matter. Rhaegar knew he was transparent whenever it came to Lyanna. He did not broach that subject either. Rickard Stark sat down as well, apparently comfortable enough in this setting. “There have been a number of messages coming forth and I believe I managed to piece it all together satisfactorily. My daughter was making for Winterfell when the party was happened upon by the enemy. By some unfortunate accident of fate, they managed to do some harm until aid came. I understand that my daughter was then the beneficiary of Lord Arryn’s protection.”

“So she is well?” That was a relief. “Lord Arryn yet hosts her, or am I wrong?”

Rickard nodded. “As well as can be expected given the circumstances. There is one more thing, Your Majesty. It seems she has been delivered of a child sometime during this whole ordeal.”

Nay. Rhaegar counted in his head. It was much too early. “And the babe–“

“Survives. A daughter.” The man cleared his throat. “I dare ask permission to broach a more delicate hypothesis under these circumstances, Your Majesty.”   

It was still much too early. Even if the child drew breath, what guaranteed she would live past infancy? Conversely, his chest strained under the heavy pounding of his heart as it swelled to a too large size. He had another daughter. “Go on.” What did she look like? He supposed she resembled Lyanna. Rhaenys resembled her mother. But then Jon already resembled Lyanna. What was her name? Aught common he supposed; Jeyne or somesuch. It was best, in these circumstances as his Hand had put it.

“The first hatchling seemed to be inordinately fond of my daughter. I fear that we have confused its affinity to my grandson when in fact it was after aught else all along. We managed to track it for some time. It does seem to be the case that it is making for those parts.”

“Darys? Bonded to my daughter?” He supposed it could be the case. Dragon births were tied to those of their rider’s when in close proximity. Had Lyanna carried that thing around it might have only hatched at his daughter’s birth.

“If that is the case, as I fear, we must make preparations.” At least his Hand seemed perfectly capable of remaining rational in the face of such news. Rhaegar was still caught up in the fact that he had another daughter and that she had a dragon. Good gods, this one would not be easy to explain away.

“I must retrieve the dragon.” They could claim the beast had rushed out to hunt. No one would be any the wiser to its true intentions and Lyanna would be afforded some protection. “There is one thing I do not understand; why did her husband not simply return to Rosby hall?”

“I imagine it has to do with him being dead, Your Majesty. I made mention of it.” And his mind had been elsewhere. Rhaegar evaded the needling feeling of annoyance. He would examine his failing at a later date. “There are several ways we could proceed from here on.”

He was offering him the chance to back out, to deny any all responsibilities when it came to Lyanna and her seemingly ill-fated couple of marriages. Rhaegar considered the option. They had been apart for some time and much could have changed. Might be Lyanna no longer wished to see him. He could easily end the chapter on this last page and consign it all to the past It would be the noble thing to do.

But then Rhaegar was too much like his father to be entirely noble.

“You must wish me to the hottest parts of hell, my lord. Be that as it may, I do not intend to let her go.” If Rickard was surprised by the vehemence, he did not let on. Instead he shifted in his chair. “This must be a rather uncomfortable scene.”

“No father can be asked to agree to such terms as these,” and as a father, I am, of course, much upset. But here there are only a king and his subject. And a subject does not judge.” Indeed, only the gods could judge a king. Rhaegar imagined the gods were having a very good laugh.

“If the situation were different–“ If. If. _If._ That would not help at all.

“But it is not,” Rickard seemed to agree on the point. “Devotion has its merits, Your Majesty. Even when it is slightly misplaced.” What an elegant way of putting it. Rhaegar could see how his future would contain a lot of appreciation for the man.

“I shall allow my men some rest. We leave on the morrow.” A curious look crossed the lord’s features. “You may choose to remain.”

“Lord Lannister is here, Your Majesty. I should feel much better to remain.” A remarkable feat considering his daughter had been stranded not too long ago in great danger. Was it a sort of wisdom which came with age?

“As you wish.” A thought came to him. And would not leave him be. Rhaegar did not think at this point it could do much ill. “Had you been the one at the tourney, what would you have done?” Brandon Stark had very nearly challenged him, he recalled, with just a hint of amusement.

“If you refer to my son’s reaction, I believe I would have agreed with Robert Baratheon. It was just a crown of flowers.” As if it had meant naught. But there was something in the cold gaze of his lord Hand. “Is it wise to continue on this path? I understand a great deal more than what many believe, Your Majesty.”

“And you would have–“

“Done everything in my power to offer the aid that was being asked for. I admit reluctance to the scheme, given Lord Whent never made mention of Jon Arryn, which must have meant the man refused involvement for whatever reason. Hoster Tully might have been convinced as well.” aught like regreat marred the words. “It would have been an interesting thing to witness.”

“It would have certainly been something to see.” A pity naught came of it. “Might be you should have aimed higher for your daughter, my lord. It might have saved us all some trouble. There was a pact, after all.”

“Which promised a princess, not a prince. And most certainly not the heir to the throne. Had you been a younger brother, might be.” He recognised the truth of the words even as regret knifed in their wake. Nay, there was naught to do for it but leave these matters in the past where they belonged. “Besides, Your Majesty has been kind enough to give us the promised princess. I shall be pleased with that.”   

“Indeed.” He would gather little more on any of these points. Rhaegar released the man, giving him leave to retreat to wherever it was he wished to be. His mind settled back upon the topic of his youngest child. A daughter. The daughter he’d been once hoping for. Rhaegar felt much the fool. It was a useless exercise in regret but his mind still brought up the possibility of princes and prophecies. Should he write to Aemon? The effort had been fruitless before. Surely it would yield no other result. But at least he had to write about Jon. To ask after those night terrors. Or visions. Whatever plagued the boy.

Not today though. He was much too unsettled to see to the task with proper attention.

A rap on the door alerted him that his other trusted partner in crime had come. Rhaegar allowed entrance to Jon Connington in hopes that whatever he had to offer might distract, if only momentarily, from the mess he’d made.

“Pray give me some good news, Connington.” The man gave only slight indication that he’d heard. Rhaegar allowed him his perusal much too used to it for aught other than indifference. Far be it from him to alienate potential allies.

“It seems the extent of Lady Cersei’s plans went no further than obtaining the title she craved. I could not find any other plot she was embroiled in and it seems to be the case that she has given her best to this one.” He waited to be invited to seat, which Rhaegar did after a moment. “And I believe with careful handling from her brother it may all wrap up well.”

“That is what I wanted to hear.” And Stannis Baratheon?”

“I have spoken to him, Your Majesty. He allowed that there might be some truth to it, but is not entirely convinced. He claims his brother not once considered the possibility of abandoning his wife entirely. His many affairs are attributed to a rather cool relationship between spouses as far as he was willing to admit.”

“A cool relationship.” Rhaegar allowed the words to echo in his mind. It was entirely possible, he supposed, that Robert had never been malicious. And in keeping with the man’s somewhat flighty, but nevertheless decent character.  Thankfully such a frank assessment of his rival did naught to daunt the ardent jealousy burning within his breast. Rhaegar would be satisfied with that for the moment. “And those bits of land he deeded over?”

“I have looked over those as well. They are as binding as can be. However, with sufficient care local trade could make up for those losses. I am certain many of the lords would not be opposed to it either.” The thoughts of raised taxes, no doubt, would ease any tension out of that lot. “It is all a matter of whom is in charge, Your Majesty, With the right men, the end of  a few years would see vast improvements.”

“I think I have just the man for that, Connington.” His subject understood without further explanation. He offered a nod of understanding and at the same time acceptance. “You shall see to this diligently, in concert with Stannis Baratheon if you can help it. The man would feel more at ease, I believe if he was involved.”

“I believe so as well.” Jon made a soft sound, as though he’d just recalled aught. “There is still the matter of punishment, Your Majesty. You have yet to settle upon what it would be.”

That he had not. He’d been oscillating between hangings and beheadings, not at all certain which he would pick. “And I have yet to find an answer to that. For now just keep them alive.” Might be after Cersei was no longer a danger.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her arm slipped around him with ease. Jaime brought his own arm back to hold her, trying his level best not to break down and confess everything to her. Cersei did that to him unfortunately. He held her close and breathed in gently, as though the faintest movement would send her tumbling away. If he were a braver man, he would go to the King and swear to take her away in exchange for her safety. A braver man might even warn her. A less petty man would at least try to save her. But whenever the urge reared its head, the memory of her words came as well. It bound him against offering any aid.

“I am so glad you weathered it this well. I had not expected it of you, brother.” The hand pressed to his chest slipped downwards. “You made me very, very proud.” He half hoped she would not try to reward him. It might just be his undoing. But Cersei was not privy to his thoughts.

“It took a lot of me,” he confessed no less than the truth. But Jaime was just a man, and like any man he was ruled by those dratted convoluted emotions. He’d wanted to do his own King harm every step of the way, at any glance, at any smile. “I was not certain I’d be able to.” His fingers brushed through her hair, bunching the ends in his fist. It was still soft and fragrant. Just as he remembered it. “Are you certain father does not know you’ve come here?”

“Have I ever been uncertain? We are not eight any longer.” That memory he brushed away. “You give me reason to be even gladder with your words. I know it cannot have been easy for you.” She brushed her lips to his. “I wish I could do more than this for you.”

Gods, he did not. He wished she would do even less. But apparently his good behaviour had earned her approval. And Jaime hated how used that made him feel. Along with the heat unfurling in the pit of his stomach; that also gave him enough regrets to last a lifetime. Between those two, he would surely burn somewhere in the pits of the seven hells.

“You are doing more than enough.” He kissed the top of her head, marvelling at how right it still felt to hold her. She fitted perfectly against him. As ever. Unexpectedly, a chuckle choked itself in the back of his throat. Jaime shook with the effort it took to hold it at bay. But Cersei must have taken it for eagerness.

“And this is why I love you best of all men, Jaime,” she sighed, leaning harder against him.

“I love you as well,” he offered his customary reply, hoping to her it sounded less hollow than it did to his own ears. Cersei met his gaze, but he could see naught there to indicate she’d caught on.

“I know.” And that was the last nail in his coffin. Jaime let go, unwilling to prolong the suffering.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to do something new with the clues. Hope you like it. And if you don't know whose it is, well, tsk tsk. You should.
> 
> 1)Luzoogbizmmrvhzgbizmmbhrmxvivobv **c** vixrhvwulig **s** vt **l** lwlurgh **e** rxgrnhnzbyvgsvnlhglkkivhhrevrgdlfo **w** yvyvggv **i** glorevfmwviilyyviyzilmhg **s** zmfmwvilnmrklgvmgnlizoyfhbylwrvhgsvilyyviyzilm'hxifvogbnzbhlnvgrnvhhovvksrhxfkrwrgbnzbzghlnvklrmgyvhzgrzgvwyfggslhvdslglinvmgfhulilfildmtllwdrooglinvmgfhdrgslfgvmwuligsvbwlhldrgsgsvzkkilezolugsvrildmxlmhxrvmxv.


	25. Paint The Sky Red

 

 

 

 

 

 

A thin layer of ice hung over the polished stones which during summertime perfected a thin ribbon of road circling the keep through a small, rather poorly put together with only a vague semblance to what one understood to be a garden. Lyanna supposed it was due to the rocky soil. Many a tree could not endure and flowers even less so. But there were some hardy plants, indigenous to these parts, she had no doubt, which had managed to defeat all expectations of failure. Mostly, they were small and bush-like in appearance. Covered with snow, she could not figure whether they ever bore fruits. Not that she was interested in testing the properties of unknown fruits.

Chances were that one bite would end with her on the ground. At which point she’d have left behind a right mess for the rest of the world to deal with. Much as Lyanna enjoyed the occasional confusion of her compatriots, she would never dream of making a rule of it. More or less owing to her own experience with frustrating states of confusion.

As the thought too her, so did the ice beneath her feet. With a light yelp she skid forth, her mind warning of the pain waiting on the other end. Muscles corded in anticipation, and she might have even had the chance to put to goof use her preparations were it not for the timely intervention of her companion.

Elbert’s chuckle reached her ears. “Same old Lya, never paying too much mind to your surroundings.” He straightened her. “You are aware we’re already stretching the maester’s patience, are you not.”

“How could I not be?” she returned with unruffled calm, testing the balance before she let go of Elbert’s gracious support. “It was all the man would speak of. But I could no longer stand being cooped up inside.” She’d endured as much as she could, but one could only read old tales for so long before losing their marbles.

“I understand,” Elbert assured her. They’d never been particularly close. Lyanna never paid him much mind before. Of course, he was one of Brandon’s good friends and as such she’d seen him every now and again, furthering her acquaintance with him through the occasional visit and a few dances. “As I said, you have not changed. I half expected that you’d demand a horse as well.”

“I am not nearly that reckless.” The protest was met with a shrug. One of incredulity. He was Elbert and he had seen her challenging her brothers more than one, which was a reckless thing in itself given the disparities, very obvious, that plagued those rapports. “You have yet to tell me though, why it was you insisted upon accompanying me.” 

“Can I not feel responsible for a dear friend’s sister?”  He eased an arm around hers as they encountered another patch of hardy ice.

“I never claimed as such.” She allowed him to lead, holding onto the source of balance with more than a tad bit of firmness. “Yet I cannot claim to understand it either. If you ever had such a responsibility towards me, it has ended. I am, after all, guest in your kin’s home.”

“But you nearly weren’t.” Men were such a strange lot. Lyanna paused midstride, eying him with keen interest as she pulled her hand away from his person. Elbert turned as well, pinning her in place. “You are kind to assure me as you do, but some things, no matter how oft said, simply cannot be. I should have known the danger was not negligible.”

“That is not aught one might gauge by the direction of the wind. Sometimes unexpected things happen.” Patting his shoulder gently, Lyanna struggled to find her words. She would not admit, even to him, that half of that disastrous situation found its blame within her. “We should let lying dogs sleep, my friend. Since all has ended well.”

He shook his head but did not press further. Was it because he felt he owed it to Brandon’s little sister? Was it to do with her late husband? She could not bring herself to press further either. Instead they resumed their earlier exercise. “Sometimes I wonder at these bonds you men create about yourselves. I am certain Brandon would not wish his friendship to be a burden.”

“Duty is all men have, our sole judge.” Wisdom early in the morning had a way of bringing dark skies about. Lyanna listened nevertheless. “It may seem strange a thing to say, but think upon it for a moment. Are we not judged on how well we’ve done by our duties?”

That she could not answer. Opting to wait out the slight strain of unease, Lyanna glanced towards one of the bushes, noting brambles decorated the thin lines tangled in tight knots. Nothing she said would convince him and mayhap he had the right of it not to be convinced. After all, what did she know of being a man and shouldering those responsibilities?

“It is so quiet here,” she noted, hoping to divert his attention from any self-flagellating notions for the time being. “I do not think I have never seen a keep this quiet.”

“One of the many perks such high altitudes confer. If the servants talk too much they run out of air,” he rumbled in response, clearly diverted. Lyanna mentally patted herself on the back. “I don’t suppose you meant it as a complaint, my lady.”

“Not at all. I would never be so crass.” Not any longer at any rate. “It does one good to have a little peace and quiet from time to time, ser.” It was an opportunity which would not return with any alacrity given she hoped to be on her way as soon as she had word from her kin. Thus far no raven had breached the wait, but she kept hope. One of these days it would come. She wondered how much father would reveal to Rhaegar.

Rhaegar. She’d avoided allowing her thoughts to linger upon him. It was rather difficult to maintain composure and not demand his attention. A wonder what a small bit of distance could do. Worked wonders as far as she could tell. On the one hand, she wanted little more than to have him here with her, and their daughter and Jon. Conversely, her mind was none too shy in letting her know the futility of such wishes. It simply would not do to fall into another trap this time around.

When he wishes to see her, he would seek her out. Until that time she’d do well to remember two children depended on her discretion. Or if not entirely that precarious of a situation, very near one. Stifling a sigh, she went about distracting herself the only way she could think of at the moment. “So tell me good ser, what manner of trouble is there to be found in these parts? I grow wary of this heavy silence.”

“There is trouble enough, my lady, but I would prefer not to disclose anything of it.” He took a narrower path. Lyanna assumed it led to more thorny bushes. No structure came to disabuse her of the notion, much as she’d been hoping it might. “Find aught else to distract yourself with. I shan’t be responsible for your peril.”

“You are of little faith, my friend. Very well. If I am allowed to choose my distraction, let us converse about the one subject both of us know more about than we’ve a wish to.” He cast an inquisitive stare her way. “No need to play coy. I mean of course that we should speak of your impending nuptials.”

Her eyes might be playing tricks on her, but she could swear her poor companion lost his colour at those words. Lyanna paused, considering the wisdom of pressing further into the matter. When would she get another opportunity? “What a heartening response.”

“My lady, you already–“ Elbert never finished. Whether it had to do with his own filters or with her quelling look, there would never be any certainty. What Lyanna could and did do was blink owlishly at a stray ray of sunlight spearing through her line of vision. Blasted thing nearly made her lose her footing a second time in so many hours. “There will come a day for that as well.”

“Not nearly fast enough as far as the bride is concerned. You know, my good-sister writes that little Lysa is most disappointed with your lack of attention. And as you say, the day is drawing close.” Come to think of it, what did Lord Tully know about his daughter’s prospective husband. The man was about as interested in it as she was in embroidery.

“But ‘tis not yet here.”

“Lysa is a nice young girl. Surely you are not avoiding this marriage.” Granted, Lyanna did not have a long-standing acquaintance with her god-sister’s kin, but she supposed Lysa Tully to be like many other of her peers. She certainly seemed it, all aglow at Brandon and Catelyn’s wedding.

“Surely not.” The snow crunched beneath his heavy boots. “You seem to know an awful lot about her desires.”

“Purely coincidentally, I assure you. Catelyn enjoys our correspondence as much as I do and if we’ve naught to speak of then we strive to find a subject. It just so happened that more often than not her sister was it.”    

A slight wetness crept beneath the sturdy material of her stocking. Dismayed, she glanced at the ground, only then noting she’d been kicking up snow. It had grown slightly deeper as well. Lyanna dragged her feet out of danger and shook out her skirts, the thick clusters clinging to her hem and slightly above given no recourse but to fall to the ground.

“That does make my heat lighter,” Elbert grumbled, though she detected no true anger there. “I do not know how I would deal with her. The girl is such a child.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?” as far as she knew, the younger Tully sister was about her age, and exceedingly amiable. But then Lyanna did not have to wed her and they’d only rubbed along together for a very brief celebration.

“Now you will surely think me boorish for saying this, but I often wonder if she can do aught other than smile as though she were not quite right in the head. Good gods, I don’t believe her expression ever changed.”

It struck her then that she was dealing with a special situation. “By chance, ser, would you happen to have last seen the girl at Brandon’s wedding?” The gulp gave him away. Elbert no doubt knew she would not let the matter go. “Well?”

“I cannot deny it,” he allowed after a long pause. “It is not as though I planned it. It just happened.”

Electing not to comment upon the latter, and interestingly enough additional, part of his answer. “No wonder you think so little of her. She was very young when last you saw her. People grow, ser. She is bound to have done so as well.”

“If it were you, my lady, I would not worry. But since I’ve not the same guarantees with my betrothed, I think I am entitled to my worries.” He raked his fingers through his hair and analysed her face with grave seriousness.

“Two marriages seems to be one too many already. I will be perfectly content a widow in the days to come.” He nodded. Lyanna offered a small smile. “It is certainly none of my affair what you choose to do, but give the matter some thought. There is a restlessness about this that plagues Lord Tully and in turn his daughters.”

“It is not as though I plan to cheat her of her husband, my lady. But I merely request more time.” Were she able to return to the days when she’d required more time. Lyanna accepted that and would have proceeded to consign the matter of amiable silence were she not rudely interrupted by the shrill bellowing of a voice she knew well enough for her heart to leap in her throat.

Erstwhile calm shattered, she turned around with as much speed as she could muster and ploughed through the drifts of snow. It did not take long for her to catch sight of Tilly who’d come running from within the keep. “Quick, m’lady, quick,” she panted, holding a fist up to her heart. “The child is ailing. She needs you.”

And that was all Lyanna truly needed to slide from slightly concerned into a whirlwind of panic and recrimination. Alys had been sleeping when she’d left the girl, selfishly prattling on about how being cooped up made her uneasy, when in truth it mustn’t have been rest her daughter was getting. But there was no time to dwell. She simply sprinted back towards Tilly, Elbert close at her side.

They entered together, she not even stopping to strip off her snow-laden cloth. Lyanna clambered gracelessly up the stairs, stumbling only a few times in her ascent. Though the muscles in her legs cramped in protest she did not slack the pace and soon found herself pushing against the bedchamber door. It gave way.

Trusty Brynden leaned over the babe’s cradle, hard at work. Not that it mattered one whit to her, since not even that managed to put her at ease. “What is going on here?” Lyanna questioned harshly, lungs screeching out at the lack of air. She only managed to gulp down a few mouthfuls before her entire concentration was required.

“Aught wrong with her lungs. It could be the cold. It could be the manner of her delivery,” the acolyte mussed. He glanced at her over the shoulder, allowing a faint trace of understanding to infiltrate the glance. “Have you noticed aught amiss with her of late?”

“Nay. I would have said something.” Finally gaining enough sense to drop the weight of her cloak from her shoulders, Lyanna hastened past the large bed and stopped only on the other side of the crib. She eyed the slightly blue hue of her daughter’s face. “She is breathing.”

“Just barely.” Brynden lifted the swaddled creature from its nest and handed her to Lyanna. “Hold her. We must loosen there.” Thus he proceeded as his word, divesting her daughter of every last string of wool. Lyanna was dimply aware that she was nowhere near as clumsy in her actions as she thought she’d be. Just as well.

The babe was bare, a thin, shallow wail marking her displeasure. “Heat. She needs heat. My lady, if you would hold her to you chest.”

Affected by a sudden desire for modesty, he turned around. Only then did she understand he meant that she hold the child to her equally bared bosom. She’d fed Alys in his presence, thus her worry was not for her modesty. Nevertheless, she placed her daughter upon the bed and tugged hard upon the cloth of her kirtle. If she shredded it, she shredded it.

In the end the tears were minimal, naught which a good seamstress wouldn’t be able to fix, and Alys was nestled against her, the side of her face smooth against Lyanna. In truth, when she held her in this manner the lack of warmth was glaring. It felt rather as though she herself was a furnace. The acolyte, gaze averted, wrapped a long shawl around her shoulders, crossing it as he came around over her front and Alys.

“’Tis but a temporary measure, my lady. Aid is on the way.” Befuddled, she opted to nod. The wods made little sense to her. Only he and the maester could possibly take care of Alys in this situation. “Sit. Before you topple over.”

Awash with relief, Lyanna slid down until she met the edge of the bed. Rocking from side to side gently, she attempted to determine Alys’ state. Unfortunately, other than the fact she breathed, Lyanna learned little. “I thought she would be well. Why would this happen so suddenly?”

“It happens with babes sometimes,” Brynden offered soothingly. “There is naught you have done wrong.” Had he known her mind was coming up with all manners of blame? “We were lucky to have caught it in time. Now, my lady, ‘tis important that you remain calm.”

“I cannot.” Her voice cracked. Lyanna winced at the sound. It was rather grating, almost as though she might give in to her weakness and begin crying. It was not what her daughter needed. A sniffle still escaped her.

“You can.” A cold comfort his assurance. “You must. It is the only way to weather this. Things never get easier.”

There was aught harder than a parent watching their child die before their very eyes with them being unable to do anything? Fein would she have enjoyed hearing of such a feat. But hadn’t the courage to ask. What if there was aught worse? She shuddered to think of it.

“There now.” A stream of words followed but Lyanna was only aware of the fact that without aught had crashed terribly. She tensed, her hold around Alys becoming protective. The girl gurgled. Lyanna’s eyes landed upon the door. She flinched at the shriek and nearly jumped when the door burst open, allowing within a creature she’d not thought to see so soon.

“Darys?” The dragonling was sufficiently distracted from his self-appointed task of terrorising Tilly at the sound of her voice that he paused, craning his neck in her direction. A growl left him and without warning he leaped over the distance between the, scrambling in her lap.

“M’lady,” Tilly shrieked, clearly frightened.

“There is no need for yelling,” Brynden returned calmly, escorting the servant out. “Allow the dragon to help. He is, after all, her very own.”  Darys’ tail flailed, slicing through air. He’d grown. Lyanna looked down into her lap with distrust. “Quick. There will be much explaining to do.

Allowing that he might have the right of it no matter how unsettled the thought left her, Lyanna gingerly deposited Alys on the bed, striving to keep Darys from her at the same time with well-placed nudged. The dragon was as stubborn as he was dangerous, using all his trickery. At no point, however, did he injure her.

“If aught happens to my daughter, you are becoming minced meat,” she promised solemnly, retreating only to have the unexpected guest carefully arrange himself around the child, creating a cocoon with his wings. All that remained visible was a clawed paw.

A hand touched her shoulder, reminding her, rather timely, that she was not fit to receive anyone. Lyanna pulled up the material, redoing torn lacing to the best of her abilities. “How did he know where to find us?”

“Dragons are like that, especially with their rider. It bonded with Alys since before she was born.” It made sense. Lyanna had thought it was mayhap Jon the creature had taken a liking to. She’d gone as far as to assume it guarded her as some favour to her son. But nay, it turned out the reason was simply so much more momentous.

“A rider? My daughter? That cannot be.” She well believed that her children could inherit some insanely dangerous  abilities any day. Lyanna was even willing to bet they would. But she’d always hoped it would manifest itself when they were old enough to shield their heats from what they would birth. “He cannot remain here.”

“It cannot leave either,” the man debated. “Not if you wish her to live. My lady, sooner or later, it would have been known. She looks the daughter of her father to any discerning eye.”

“A dragon is as good as an admission,” Lyanna breathed out, choking the urge to reach out and touch the protective layer Darys had imposed between Alys and the world. “I hoped no one would ever be given a chance to take note of these things. My daughter is a Rosby.”

“And will continue to be one. It is my understanding that Lord Rosby needs an heir now that his old one is dead. This girl just happens to carry the man’s name. If Lord Rosby has no words of protest it is not for others to decide such matters for him.” He spoke sense. But Lyanna was still not satisfied. She grimaced. “I cannot convince you if you do not wish to be convinced. The most I can do is try.”

“You have done more than enough for me. I do not know from where to take you.” And to think that once not so long ago she’d been worried that he might land her son in trouble. It seemed rather that she would lend them all in trouble though.

“Then let us proceed. We are waited upon.” Of course they would be. A dragon would not go unnoticed for long. Especially not one that made it a point to barge in recklessly.

The truth was not far off from the acolyte’s predictions. In the hallway a few rather ruffled looking individuals lingered, no expression quite decided between morbid curiosity and fear. It was all rather charming a tableau.

“M’lady,” Tilly whimpered, jerking back violently, mayhap as a counteraction to an unruly impulse. Lyanna gave her a light smile, willing her eyes to convey what her words could not. All was well. At least as far as the servants were concerned.

“Darys seems to take particular pleasure in chasing servants about,” she ventured. “I hope you are no worse for it though.” Tilly nodded meekly. “That is well then.”

“I take it the dragon wished entrance to your bedchamber,” Lord Arryn muttered, surveying her with a cool glance. Then his gaze moved to the door which Brynden stood pointedly in front of. “The creature might be dangerous. We’ve had a raven from King’s Landing informing us a solution is being devised and that we are not to harm it.”

“Then you’d best not harm him.” At the very least now she had some proof that her situation was not unknown. “Is there aught else?”

“Word from your lord father that you as well are to wait for this solution. I understand it will be carried out with alacrity.” That settled it. Lyanna was even more convinced that Rhaegar had heard all there was to hear and had doubtlessly sent someone to collect Darys. “Pray allow us entrance, my lady, so that we might remove the creature.”

“That I cannot do. Darys is good where he is and shan’t create trouble. You’ve my word for it.” Her word was met with a slight whiff of distrust. And why should it not? The North had never truly been renowned for its dragons. “Some matters do not bear explaining, my lord.” He would not press further. Or at least she hoped he would not.

“At the very least allow some guards at your door,” Elbert suggested peaceably. “If there is any need to intervene they will be sure to do so.”

“Against a dragon?” Certainly Darys was not fully grow but she’d seen what he was capable of. “I would not advise them to. Lord Arryn, there is no need to endanger your men. Simply have cooked meat brought to this chamber along with my meal and it should be well.”

“I’m afraid I must insist. The guards are nonnegotiable. As for the creature, it belongs to the King. Whatever damaged its stay here incurs will be properly seen to, I’ve little doubt.” Had she thought she had a chance at convincing him otherwise, she would have continued insisting, but Lyanna was still just a guest inconveniencing the poor sod. She’d have to take that into account as well.  

“Very well, let there be guards then,” she acquiesced with a sore lack of passion. “But they cannot step within my bedchamber outside my say-so.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, filler, more filler and some Darys. Sorry, have to watch the kiddos and can't really be bothered, but I'm sure you'll live through the rough patch of writing. You're tough and stuff.
> 
> Clue: The Futhorc B Runic Alphabet
> 
> By the by the th is actually spelled as the thorn symbol, but I'm sure ol' google will know what you mean. Trust me, this will help you.


	26. Swan Song

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rhaegar was not quite certain he was going to survive this adventure. Between the stubborn mules, Lyanna’s much too sunny disposed younger brother and a light fall of snow, his aims, still in sight, were becoming more and more difficult to reach. If the mules moved any slower, they were surely going to reach the summit in a few more years or so. He gripped the reins firmly and hoped beyond hope a glimmer would break the greyness of his annoyance. Alas, no such strand of salvation came anywhere in sight.

It was the blasted weather. Midway through their journey a blizzard of sorts had swept through the kingdoms. Come from afar, the pest did little but make the passing a hard experience for all involved to Rhaegar’s eternal exasperation. He just wanted the whole thing to be done with so he might see Lyanna, and their daughter.     

This would be the third of his children whose birth he’d missed. But then even if by some miracle he’d been in the vicinity, he did not imagine it would do a lot of good. Sighing to himself, he urged the creature beneath his forward, looking at their guide who seemed in his element. The little girl sharing a saddle with him did not seem bothered by the harsh conditions either. If one were to judge by the rosy cheeks and wide glinting eyes, she was having fun.

“Has Your Majesty never travelled to the Eyrie before?” Benjen Stark questioned, his usual effrontery on display, much like a costly suit of armour; no doubt meant to deter any potential attack. “It is a stunning feat of architecture, this place.”

“I take it you are acquainted with the place,” he allowed himself to fall into conversation. Mayhap it would distract him for the time being. Glancing towards the heavens, he noted the thick clouds gathered above them. The snowfall could explode into a full blown storm at any moment.

“My middle brother squired for Lord Arryn. I visited on occasions, but I cannot claim knowledge. I was never much disposed to explore without my sister.” Light laughter left his lips. “Robert Baratheon squired here as well. Might be the reason why father never truly permitted Lyanna to visit as she would have liked.”

Slight suspicion crept upon him along with a sense of discordant vexation. He didn’t wish to hear of Robert’s courtship. “That is quite peculiar. He was her betrothed at the time, was he not?”

“I will admit my sister was never desirous of seeing Robert, but she would have enjoyed spending time with Ned,” Benjen evaded answering. “For a time, he was the bravest and best if all her brothers, or so Lyanna would swear.” Another smile followed. “Especially when Brandon visited.”

“I’m afraid I will insist upon knowing why your father did not allow her to visit your brother here. I am beyond intrigued.” For all the good it did him, Rhaegar decided against asking a third time should the younger man refuse to gratify his desire.

Happily Benjen merely met the insistence with a raised eyebrow and a soft shrug. “You can’t tell? Look at the girl riding with the guide. Pay attention, Your Majesty.”

Beyond intrigued as he’d confessed to being, Rhaegar did as suggested, this time keeping his eyes upon the child bouncing lightly in the saddle, her grip firm on her minder. Sable hair, blue eyes. He continued to watch her hoping that aught would give away the wolf’s meaning. Alas, naught came to his aid. Still, he continued his perusal, noting all which might come in handy. “There is no satisfactory answer I might venture. Nevertheless, I suppose you will enlighten me.”

“Truly you cannot figure it out?” Benjen’s voice had lowered, as though he feared their conversation being heard. “The girl is called Mya Stone. She’s lived here her whole life at the insistence of her father. Her mother has been dead for some time now and her father only recently passed.”

He made the leap when he lasted expected it. “You mean Robert –“

“Aye.” A nod accompanied the reply, adding strength to it. “There have been others since, but Mya was his first and reportedly the one he took most interest in. He arranged that she live and serve in the keep in whatever capacity she would have. Lord Arryn agreed to keep her for some reason.”

Likely because Robert Baratheon had been almost a son to the man. He held little doubt that Eddard Stark occupied a like position. “How old is she? Not yet a decade, I reckon.”

“Nay, not yet. She is such a sweet child. It is a pity Robert never thought to raise her alongside Jon. But I fear she did not hold his attention for such a long amount of time. Alas, ‘tis better for her, I imagine, having the stability she is given in these parts. ”

Recognising a dig when he heard one, Rhaegar dared a cool look in the man’s direction. “You are very close to you sister, I understand.” To be fair, the Stark siblings did seem rather tight-knitted together. And the last two, he’d been told, even more so on account of a rather impressive bond.

“Of course. Unlike Ned or Brandon, I spent my childhood days with Lya.” And yet he seemed compelled to bring up such subjects that would bring his sister no end of embarrassment. “It is a difficult bond to imagine, I suppose, when one grew without siblings.” Yet another dig. If Benjen Stark was trying to win his ire, he was on a sure road to do so. “But we, the both of us, have a fondness for my sister, thus I believe our goals to be common.”

“Such interesting words.” His goals did not extend beyond making certain all was well within the small circle of his family. For that, he was willing to overlook earlier transgressions. “I wonder, what could you be thinking of?”  

“Simply that given current circumstances a modicum of care is advised.” The flat voice was telling. “I do not know what plans you have, but I am first and foremost Lyanna’s brother. And while I am merely a subject to the will of my betters, there are yet boats to rock.”

“Is that a threat?” As though they were not discussing delicate subjects, Lyanna’s brother gave a bark of laughter. He may have found the whole of it amusing, but for the life of him, Rhaegar could not detect the humour in this particular situation. His eyes narrowed momentarily, pinning the other into place. “I fail to see how laughter is encouraged.”

“I know as much, Your Majesty” Benjen assured him. The animal beneath him made a rough sound. “I do not make threats, as a rule. Vile things, aren’t they? I prefer to think of my words as promises for the most part. Besides, Your Majesty, my sister would be appalled should I dare to make a threat towards you.”

“And you always strive to please your sister?” The light note of sarcasm did not exact the response Rhaegar would have wanted. Instead, Benjen Stark continued as he was, ignoring the edge to his words. “I’d no idea you were such a devoted brother.”

The young man shrugged, the easy rise and fall of his shoulders speaking of him being entirely comfortable. Whether the calm was affected or not was more difficult to tell, especially when one was faced with such a brilliant mummer. “If only she strove to please me in return,” he sighed fondly. “But Lyanna rarely wishes to please anyone other than herself.” The censure, if there was one to begin with, was mitigated by the tone of his voice. As thought the flaw was not quite that grave a thing on his sister.

The opinion of many a brother upon their sisters, Rhaegar was certain. He did not expect that faults would be presented in the meanest of lights. His attention remained on the wolf. “Are you mayhap trying to convince me ‘tis folly to pursue her?”

“That much should have been clear from the very beginning,” Benjen offered, with no more and no less than insolent sureness. “Pure logic should have been a strong argument against such a move, as it was not, I do not believe I could possibly have a greater effect by my powers alone.”

“Then I cannot quite explain why it is you feel the need to tell me all you have.”Should he ask Lyanna about the peculiar behaviour of her brother? Might be she would know no better than him in this. After all, they’d not been in communication for some time.

“A question without answer, Your Majesty.” The teasing was alight, as if they were close as brothers. What a peculiar young man. Nay, he would have to ask Lyanna, after all. If she knew, she knew. If not, then he’d find out himself in a little while. At present one had more pressing issues to concentrate upon.

Tension deflated ever so slowly as they climbed higher and higher. Rhaegar would occasionally glance back at the men to make certain no one was behind. The travelling party was a small one. He’d determined such a number would aid the haste of the matter, as opposed to a more secure, larger gathering which would lug its way up the Kingsroad at impossibly slow speed. Mercifully not a single man was lost. The mules had a sort of discipline one did not precisely expect of such animals. But then he was more than glad for it. It meant the journey would be at an end with only the slightest chance of mishaps.    

To his tremendous sense of gladness, the rest of his suffering was not long to last. If aught it seemed shortened by the ruminations which preoccupied him. At least he would have something to be grateful for where the wolfling was concerned. Every so often his eyes would return to Mya Stone. The gross irony of the situation trickled and seeped undeterred through his thoughts, his acknowledgement given only half-willingly. Rhaegar supposed he could do no better than give in to that impulse.

And then they stood all of them before wide gates, in greeting with the lord of the keep who upon their arrival presented them with the routinely used items such events called for. Their arrival was marked as well with more than Jon Arryn’s somewhat sullen appearance. At his side, his heir stood as thought waiting for an opportune moment. His eyes darted from Rhaegar to Benjen, uncertainty hidden but not entirely unnoticeable. If he feared aught, he acted it well.

But there was little time to figure out what exactly bothered the knight before Rhaegar was lured into conversation.  “We thought for certain Your Majesty would send someone. ‘Tis most unexpected that you yourself have come.”

“The matter is one of great import, my lord. Naturally, I could not simply have it passed onto someone else. I suspect I am not wrong in assuming the dragon has made its way in this keep.”  The look the man gave him struck him as peculiar. Alas, his mind was not upon Lord Arryn and whatever the man rightly suspected, for what else could have possibly prompted his reaction.

“It seems to be quite taken with Lady Rosby’s bedchamber for some reason.” Was he imagining the warning in those words? “She insisted that we leave the beast be and the acolyte from King’s Landing did not seem worried it might bring harm.”

So Brynden was with Lyanna. That eased his fears somewhat with regards to her health and his daughter’s. “That is just as well. I should like to see with my own eyes what the creature is doing.”

The master of the Eyrie gave a sharp nod lacking in any manner of understanding but permissive out of necessity. Rhaegar had not expected it might be any different. If this man was the one who’d raised Eddard Stark into the rigidly drawn lines of propriety, then he no doubt had a reaction similar to his pupil’s. Nay, were he in the same position little doubt his own mind would censure the same behaviour harshly. But then he could well afford not to, since he was the protagonist of his own overdramatic experience. And he could not bring himself to disengage.

Thus he allowed himself to be lead from the sharp rocks harshly set within the courtyard away into the keep, following his guide with an easy, but equally impatient step. Ser Whent followed behind, his voice rumbling as the conversation picked up behind him. No doubt the men were eager to find food and drink. “My men have journeyed long. Mayhap they might be found aught to quell their needs.”

“What of you, Your Majesty?”

“I am well and need to attend to more pressing matters.” Once more he was not denied in his request despite the clear disapproval mirrored on his host’s face.  His men were given leave to see themselves fed and entertained while a servant appeared at the behest of Jon Arryn.

The young woman’s childish wonder was alleviated by relief when she heard he’d come fro the dragon. While little left her lips beside a sigh, she brought her hands together as though in prayer. “Chasing servants is the beasts’ second most pleasing form of entertainment after stealing Lady Lyanna’s girdles. apparently,” Arryn noted drily.

“I see. ‘Tis my hope no lasting damage has been done.” That he addressed to the young woman whose face was a deep wine-red colour.

“Nay, Your Majesty,” she hurriedly assured him. “M’lady is fine as ever she was.”

“Tilly, get going, girl,” the lord urged her, the simple reminder more than enough to have her showing the way towards what Rhaegar assumed was the chamber where both Lyanna and the child could be found. Darys, he came to understand as the servant woman related once he encouraged her speech, had simply burst into the chamber and attached himself to the babe.

“She’s so small and m’lady worried. We all worried, what with this awful chill. The master thought it would do ‘er harm.” On and on she prattled until he tuned her out, nodding every one in a while as they mounted the stairs. “Here it is, Your Majesty.”

Dismissing her with a have and a quiet demand that she make no noise, Rhaegar watched until she disappeared from sight, leaving him alone in the hallway. He then pushed his weight gently against the door. There was no audible creak to give his arrival away and he half expected by the silence to be greeted with the sight of slumbering from all within.

Fate had other plans.

Once the wood was out of the way his eyes fell upon the slightly surprised visage of Lyanna. Slumbering she was not at that point, but her appearance indicated she’d not long woken from her rest. “Rhaegar.” It was not loud, his name upon her lips, barely a whisper even. “Your Majesty,” she corrected in the next moment.

With a shake of the head he stepped within and shut the door in his wake. “Rhaegar will do just fine, Lyanna.” His modulated his voice so it matched hers, gazing at the small crib upon which the dragonling was perched. No move was made to acknowledge him. “It sleeps?”

“Better that it does, when awake I can barely move about without its constant presence tailing me. ‘Tis as though he wishes I would not move from her side.” Rhaegar needed no clarification, for he’d already wandered closer to the wooden structure, leaning over it to peer inside at the neatly bundled babe.

She was so tiny. Careful of her guardian, Rhaegar lifted the child gently in his arms, marvelling at the diminutive size. She could not weigh more than a feather and measured only slightly more than his palm. In truth he feared even cradling her lest her dainty bones be jostled too hard with the grasp. Her mouth parted slightly, thin lips rolling back in a pucker. Was she dreaming?

There was something about holding ones child which set the world to rights. “Tell me her name.” Soft tendril curled around her face, framing the soft-pink cheeks.

“Alysanne.” Very telling. He spared Lyanna a look at that. She offered a tremulous smile. “Alys.”

“Alys. Welcome, little Alys,” he whispered to the curls, closed eyes and up-sweeping lashes. A warm weight settled against his side, arms wrapping around his waist. Since he could hold Alys easily with one arm, he returned the embrace loosely. “She looks so fragile.”

“She is fragile.” The note of regret did not escape him. “If Darys had not arrived when he did,” Lyanna trailed off. “Rhaegar, this one we cannot simply pretend away. A Rosby with a dragon, well, ‘tis simply unheard of.”

“’Tis heard of now.” Settling her better against his side, he turned his face towards her queering eyes. “I will make certain of it.”

“Jon at the very least could count on the blood of Princess Rhaelle,” the she-wolf pointed out. “House Rosby is not so fortune. They will know.”

“They will not breathe a word. ‘Tis a promise, Lyanna.” She nodded, doubt shining in her gaze. Her head rested against his shoulder. “Some of it might be difficult, but she is my daughter. She will always be able to count on my protection.”

“I’ve no doubt of that.” The rest of it went unspoken. Even so, he could not cut the tongue of every subject within his realm. “And she will have Jon. And Darys. I doubt she’ll ever have to suffer an ill word.” A wistful sigh left her lips. “What took you, Rhaegar? I was about to give up on you ever arriving.”

“You would give up so easily?” He chuckled lightly and moved to drop a kiss upon her brow. “What manner of faith hold you in that heart of yours?”

“One of steel,” she answered.   

  

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is it obvious I have something else on my mind? Well, I do. And my God, am I hyped.
> 
> Toodles, dears, I'm off to my new love.


	27. Precious Memories

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jaime had been avoiding father. Cersei watched her twin with nettled curiosity. It was not like him to scurry behind the shield of duty. She did not understand his stance. And she did not like it even a little bit. A serious Jaime posed problems she did not want to contemplate. Thus she leaned on father’s arm with more than just a little strength and nodded pleasantly to the Queen-mother’s question, not even knowing what it was she answered in truth.

Rhaella Targaryen shifted in her seat, the bold smile she offered inescapably contrived. “I’d been hoping you would think so. It is always so nice when the young ones know how to show appreciation.” Cersei eyes glided to her lap. It was no show of demure and decorous sensibilities as much as it was an attempt to gather herself. “We missed you at my husband’s funeral, my lord,” the Queen-mother engaged her father, seemingly done with her for the moment. Cersei breathed out in relief.

“Unfortunate but unavoidable,” Her father insisted with nary a strain. It was quite clear he could well handle the woman. “I was very sorry for it to be the case. His Majesty counted me among his closest companions at a time.” For all the good that did him. The Dragons were a flighty lot. Cersei surreptitiously lifted her gaze to Jaime’s, keeping one ear on the conversation as well.

“I recall, my lord. We were all very young then, were we not?” The regret in the other woman’s voice was unmistakable. Unable to completely shield herself, Cersie felt its remnants reverberate through her own being, a reminder that she was not getting any younger herself, and one day she would be like this woman seated before her. But might be not as bitter.

Jaime finally met her stare. Yet something in the green of his eyes warned her away. She frowned without meaning to. Her brother offered a shallow shrug, followed by a barely-there smile. The rigidity returned mere moments after. This would not do. They were brother and sister, not only that but they knew one another inside-out. Something was wrong. And she would find out what.

“Would that our youth never left,” Tywin Lannister allowed with just a hint of understanding belying the stony firmness of his words. “Alas, Your Grace, we are doomed to a transitory existence. I find ‘tis best not to think too deeply upon it.”

“I vow you grow more insightful by the day,” the Queen-mother in turn continued with the pleasantries. “Let us then do as you say. Shall you be staying long, my lord?”

“Only until I’ve concluded my business in these parts. I fear Casterly Rock cannot go long without proper guidance.” Which was untrue. The servants followed a strict pattern whether father was there to enforce it or not. And Uncle Kevan supervised the whole thing. Likely as not, the lot of them barely noticed his absence.

Time trickled by, dissipating into idle conversation. Before long Cersei was weary of sitting. She wished she might rise and go to Jaime. But as a Kingsguard on duty he would be obliged to ignore any conversational cues unless they were given by the Queen-mother. And she seemed content enough to dance around some elusive subject with their lord father. Without doubt he could see it too. Cersei understood not his urge to indulge her, but let the matter drop.    

She participated when it was required of her. Naturally, ‘twas not often. But as she listened it became clear there was a rich history there she was not aware of. Few names she did recognise, but many were strange to her. The war of the Nine-penny Kings had never interested her. She’d known Jaime to have studied the tactics used throughout the battles and he’d even indulged her a few times by recounting rather poorly the sequence of events. Of course the blame lied solely with his master’s septon, she’d told herself, for Jaime, yet squiring did indeed need to take lessons as well.

Yet her father’s recount was entirely different. It lacked passion. Most things lacked passion when he did them. But for what it missed, it made up for with a wealth of detail the likes of which she’d not been subjected to before. Men rarely spoke of war to either wives or daughters. In fact Cersei could not recall a single time when her father had. But he was undeniably comfortable doing do in front of an old acquaintance. Aught within her warned that interrupting could have unpleasant repercussions. Thus she did not.

The Queen-mother seemed to be enjoying herself as well. Indeed, she nodded as though she’d visited the battlefield herself. That could not be. The war was nigh a year after the birth of her son. She would have still been required to care for the babe and would not have been allowed to leave even if that were not the case.

Mayhap the old King had spoken to her of those times. Shrugging off the wandering thought Cersei leaned back in her seat. She picked at the fold of her skirts, pulling golden threads from intricate patterns. The thing was wasted on the Queen-mother anyway. She suddenly wished Rhaegar were around. Did that dratted dragon have naught better to do than run off and inspire a chase? Her lips plumped in a pout before she thought better on it.

Soon enough though their interview with the she-dragon was at an end and Tywin stood, offering his arm. Cersei grabbed the limb and the chance. With a meaningful look towards her brother, she made her way without on father’s arm. “I would not have guessed Her Grace was on such kind terms with you, lord father.”

“Nor I,” Tywin answered tartly. That explained it. “Come, I have kept you long enough.” Did he fear that their unwelcome baggage had decided to whore early in the day? Just as long as he was busy keeping the dwarf decent.

The rest of her day was as uneventful as it was frustrating. Tyrion was nowhere in sight, but the scheming, grasping collection of woman hoping to grab onto her King were. Cersei strove to escape their company but it was nigh upon impossible to do so as they created a manner of net. Thus her hours were spent in a battle of wills and the occasional verbal spar with the daring ones. Thankfully, by the end of the day, she managed to slip unnoticed into the gardens and sat down upon a lonesome bench. At the very least she could be sure the frigid weather would keep the harpies away.

It did not keep Jaime away though. For which she was more than grateful. She did not even realise how much until the brother was seated next to her and a low sigh escaped her lips. She leaned into him and closed her eyes. Aught warm encircled her slightly chilled shoulders. “You’ll freeze without it,” Cersei found herself protesting as she opened her eyes to pure white lengths of wool gathered around her.

“I’m made of sturdier stuff,” Jaime promised, only a light clatter daring to contradict. She looked up with a sudden glare and he swallowed what looked like a chuckle.

“Share with me.” Her insistence won him over, and might be the biting cold helped. He drew even closer to her, their hips fitting together as one of his arms encircled her waist. “Look there,” she pointed towards a brightly shining star. It was the first stare Jaime had ever shown her after mother’s death when they’d lain together in the tall grass, still a bit tearful and shaken. “It looks lovely on this night.”

“Lovelier than ever.” He was not looking at the star though. Cersei’s cheeks warmed with ple3asure. “What can I aid you with?”

Her lips pursed. “What’s your hurry, brother? Do you no longer have time for me?” The arm around her middle moved lightly, his fingers digging into her side. “Or might be ‘tis that cow and her wide-eyed stares.”

This time he did laugh. “Whatever you are on about, sister dearest, you are wrong. I simply meant that it is cold and I’ve no desire of freezing to death. Or for you to freeze to death for that matter.” The sentiment gave her pause. It sounded like aught Jaime would think. But then something in his voice put her ill-at-ease.

“Sometimes I think you need a good shaking. I throw your mind would be less cluttered.” He shrugged at her assessment. “I just wanted to spend some time with you. Surely that is not wrong.” Once more she leaned into him. “I’ve missed you.”  He was slipping further and further away and the distance was inexplicable to her.

Waiting with baited breath, Cersei forced herself not to look at him. For all that, she willed him to say the words which would place her in a seat of confidence again. The painful strain on her chest seemed to take on monstrous proportions as the frightening prospect that she’d misjudged her brother took form in her mind.

“I’ve missed you too.” Such was her relief upon hearing the words that she dismissed the strained tone, attributing it to a rush of cool air sweeping past them. “I’ve missed spending time together.”

“As have I.” She warned pleasantly from inside out, glancing up at him with a light smile. “You can stay here with me, nay?” Jaime nodded and gathered her a little bit tighter into his side, His warmth seeped past the folds of her cloak and kirtle. “Have you seen our brother?”

“Father brought him back,” her twin replied. “He was drunk, I believe, and muttering obscenities. He did deign to greet me though.” The obvious fondness in this tone had her rolling her eyes. She did not broach that subject, knowing that her brother would obstinately refuse to change his mind. Besides, it would ruin the calm of their meeting.

“Isn’t this nice?” she questioned, burrowing further into him, feeling the weight of all else lift from her shoulders. “Being together like this? It’s been so long since we could sit together without a single worry.” A noncommittal response was forwarded by her kin. “I do not remember when last it was.”

“I do.” Her brother shifted. “It was before I left. Aunt Jenna came to console father, the two of them sequestered themselves away along with Uncle Kevan. We must have sat all night in your bedchamber before the fire.”

“I remember now. You left the very next day and I was dead on my feet. I almost fell asleep, you know, in the courtyard.” By the way he chuckled, he recalled it well enough. ”And you almost lost your seat.”

“I did not,” he denied, sounding almost boyish. “Only drunkards lose their seat, unless in battle.” She murmured her agreement and yawned softly, struggling to hide it behind the heel of her palm. It would not do though. Her brother saw her. “It seemed I run the risk of keeping you up yet again. Up you get,” he encouraged, exerting enough pressure to uproot her even in the face of soft denials. “Not another word, Cers. I won’t have you tripping all over yourself on the morrow.”

“As though I would ever be so clumsy.” Cersei allowed his handling as far as the hall leading to the Maidenvault. There Jaime pulled away. She did not even have to say a thing. His cloak was returned with a smile and a bob. He bowed back, courtly to a fault. “I will see you on the morrow.”

His assuring nod was all she needed in order to turn her back on him and begin walking away. Cersei allowed herself one last glance over her shoulder. He’d not waited for her to disappear from sight, but walked down the hall. Jaime did not turn to look at her though. Could he feel her eyes on him? The sense of wrongness reared its head again until she quashed it with firm conviction. Naught was amiss.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

  

Benjen flicked the ball of yarn softly, causing it to roll over towards Darys. The dragonling let out a croak and pounced upon it, much to Alys’ delight. Her daughter followed the movement from Lyanna’s arms, one arm flailing out as though to follow the direction of the movement. “Before long she’ll be the one chasing it around,” her brother warned, warm laughter spilling past his lips.

“I hope not.” Her grip adjusted around the child. “She might injure herself. Worst yet, the dragon could injure her. ‘Tis dangerous enough to be a babe without this thing following about.” Darys looked up from his spoils of conquest, tail wagging. His wings spread and then gathered together around his rounded body as his head cocked to the side. If it was trying to melt her heart, it was doing it right. “So, what else has happened?”

“Naught you wouldn’t expect,” Benjen shrugged, this time kicking the yarn a little ways away with the tip of his boot. “Father is thriving, Ned is over the moon, admittedly for good reason, and so on, so forth. Lord Lannister is at court.”

“And you said there was no news.” Despite the laughter upon which her words ended, Lyanna felt aught gather in her stomach, forming a tight knot. She rocked Alys. “Have they thought of a name for the babe yet?”

“I tried persuading them to go with Branda, you know, or aught which might gladden Brandon. But Ned is obstinate. He insists Marna is a perfectly adequate name for the girl. Ashara is much too happy at her new role to argue.” He combed his fingers through his hair and then reached to relieve her of her burden. “She still frightens the living daylights out of me, grandmother does. I’ve no idea what Ned was thinking.”

“Possibly that grandmother might use her cane on his toes if he dared waste this generous opportunity.” Not a living soul in Winterfell was willing to oppose the woman. And for good reason. If Arya Flint had been admired for her fortitude and resourcefulness, Marna had stood as testament to the fact that she could both lead the horse to the water and make it drink. And all that with only a son. Aye, she was truly a sight to behold and yet lived to strike terror into the souls of her grandchildren, for she saw them as perfectly adequate horses as well.

“I wish she would. But if he goes I would likely join him, which means my toes aren’t safe either. Why not come with us as well, Lya? Grandmother would be overjoyed to see you.” No doubt she would, but only after she delivered a long-winded speech to her.  

“Such dubious pleasure is not to be missed,” she answered dryly. “Might be Ondrew has managed to mellow her a little.”

“He is reportedly her favourite nephew.” Poor Ondrew, having to live with the burden. Lyanna hid her laughter behind her palm. “Might be it would not be amiss, after all. Every dog has  his day and our good, sweet Ondrew deserves his as well. I’ll think about it.”

“Better make your mind up soon. You know grandmother, she swears she’ll be leaving any day now.” Alys gurgled in her uncle’s grip, lending her voice to the cause. “Undoubtedly she will wish you bring Jon and Alys with.” Or more accurately, should Lyanna fail to bring her children, it would mean however long the visit lasted of cold recriminations from grandmother. “No need to look so horrified.”

“I am merely designing my contingency plan. If I am to battle, I would like to be prepared.” Rising to her feet, she stretched out her legs with exaggerated gestures of relief. “But what about you, Ben? You’ve been telling me all about the plans of others.”

“The higher the climb, the greater the fall, Lyanna.” He flashed her a toothy grin, stretching out one of his legs to catch her just beneath the knee. “Trying for anything seems pointless just about now. Brandon has Winterfell. Ned has Ashara. And I–” the words bled into silence.

Lyanna blinked. Her arms crossed over her chest. In slow succession her steps brought hyer to stand before her younger brother. “What is it, Ben?”

“Harry says he’ll knight me in truth. And then I am to leave his service. ‘Twas in his last letter.” He frowned. As far as Lyanna knew every second and third son dreamt of knighthood. And with Benjen there had never been a problem of not affording it. She was at a loss.

“That is good news.” Her voice betrayed the same uncertainty she saw mirrored in her brother’s eyes. “A knight. I am very proud of you. Does father know?” He would be glad at the very least. All three sons knights.

“He was busy with the arrival of Lord Lannister. I had my own activities. ‘Tis not that great a thing, sister. Squires are knighted every day.” Her daughter’s fist slammed against her uncle’s arm. Her lips moved in a pout and she frowned up at the man. “I should be glad, shouldn’t I?”

“Yet you are not.” She sat back down. “Why aren’t you glad?” In her experience, her brother was not one to worry over much. That was Ned’s job. Benjen had always been the charming brother with nary a care in the world. Likely it came with not being father’s heir.

“It feels a lot easier when we’re talking about you,” he managed with a dry chuckle as she took her daughter back and de[posited her on the bed. Darys was quick to follow, scurrying on the coverlets and wrapping himself around the babe. His tail wound up in her small fist. “Or His Majesty. Or Alys. Anyone else, truly.”

“You might not wish to include grandmother among their numbers,” she cautioned, trying to bring back the lightness of before. To no avail. Her brother’s shoulders slumped. Reaching for his hand, Lyanna pulled it on her lap, squeezing tightly. “Whatever troubles you, talk to me. We will find an answer together.” She supposed she could pretend ignorance or allow him to work it out on his own. Benjen was not a child in need of guidance. But then she’d not been much of a child when she chose her path but he’d still been there when no one else was. Knocking gently into him she held his gaze. “You can trust me.”

“Always.” Benjen cleared his throat and squeezed back. It was then that she let go. As her instincts suggested her brother needed the latitude. He climbed to his feet and began pacing before her. “I don’t know how to explain it. It came out of nowhere really. I\d just met Marna and was holding her when it struck me that I have nothing.”

“You have me and Brandon and Ned and father,” she pointed out patiently though she could already tell her brother was pressed by aught else.

“Not like that. As I said, Brandon will one day be lord of Wnterfell. Ned has his own family now. And you, well, dear sister, you were the first to take flight. And you’ve a wonderful son and daughter to show for it.” Something shifted in his gaze.

“Father wouldn’t be opposed to you wedding, Ben. And there are so many lovely ladies to choose from. I seem to recall Brandon Norrey’s sister is about our age.” Surely the situation did not look dire in her brother’s eyes. Unless, of course, like her he’d done aught he should not have. “Have you–might be with someone–already–“ The broken question trailed off. Her lips came together in a soft line of confusion. It was hard to read her brother.

“Nay. There is no one. Not a single soul.” From where she stood she could see the soft flesh in his cheek pull inwards. A wince caught upon her face. “That’s just it, sister. There had never been anyone. Do you remember when I asked how you feel about your beloved?”

She nodded. It had been a little after he found out she carried and he’d demanded to know the whole of it. “It’s not the same for everyone, brother. Sometimes it takes a lot of time.”

“It took none of you, Brandon or Ned, for either of you.” The belligerent set of his face gave her pause. “Why would it take time for me?”

“It took time for father.” Or so the man always claimed. Lyanna continued to watch her brother, worrying her lower lips between her teeth as she sought out the right words. “You could have wedded our cousin, had you wanted to. Aunt Branda was waiting for the words.”

“Does it signify? She’s happily wedded.” His lips twisted minutely. Her brother was not without his charms, but he rarely lent them to much beside the schemes of others. “Apologies, I’m pestering you with things better left alone.”

Her replying frown should have told him exactly what she thought. “Why would you ever believe something like that? ‘Tis not better left alone. I will not hear of it. If ‘it is a family of you own you’re wanting, then one you shall get.”

“I see I have put you on the path of a crusade. You needn’t be so concerned. I throw it’s little other than the scads of nieces and nephews I’ve been getting lately. It will pass.” Might be he was struggling to believe it himself, but to Lyanna the words mad e no sense.

“Benjen, I hope you know me better than to suggest I give up. You’ve brought this up. And you know better than I what it is you want.” At least she hoped he did. A marriage sealed could not be undone. “If you don’t want Brandon Norrey’s daughter we can look elsewhere.”

“I don’t even know Norrey’s daughter.” His palm smoothed over the tautly drawn features.

“We have to start somewhere.” Out of all her brothers, Benjen was perhaps the one she would most encourage to wed. “There must be something you want in this wife of yours. Beauty? Good breeding? A heart of gold? Something, Benjen. Anything.”

“I do not know.” A deep sigh left his lips. Lyanna had to wonder at that. “It would be a lot easier if I could meet her first.”

“Alas. She is nowhere to be seen by your own admission.” A clawed paw scratched against her thigh. Lyanna turned to Darys with a blank face. “Do not make trouble,” she warned. Her attention returned to her brother who’d bent to pick up the yarn ball. He dropped it in her lap. “You could have father transfer some of Brandon’s responsibilities to you. He’d enjoy staying home with his wife and children.”

“And I would see all the North has to offer,” he picked right up. “Does Brandon even enjoy his wife?” He picked up too much too quickly. “I do not know, Lyanna. It seems a tad cruel to him.”

“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” She pushed the yarn ball towards Darys who grabbed it between his teeth and began shaking it. “He still needs sons. It will be beneficial for him and he won’t have any excuse of avoiding his wife. Catelyn is a good woman.”

“She’s not Barbrey.” At that she shrugged. It was up to Brandon how much the particular bit of reality mattered. “Would you ask it of father?”

“Whenever you wished me to, brother.” A smile curled her lips. “But first things first. Get your knighthood. We will talk after, if ‘tis still what you want.” He nodded and slowly sat back down, patting the top of her thigh gently.

“You are such a good sister. I don’t know if I’ve told you that lately.” The best part was that he meant it.

“Only because you are the very best of brothers,” she returned the compliment with feeling. He would also be the best if husbands and fathers if he got the chance. Which she hoped he’d settle for.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jon liked Sunspear. Despite the overt cloud of sadness hanging over the keep, he found himself much enthralled with the new shapes and sounds. It helped that he was not paid much mind. That left time to explore and learn. He was just moving down one of the narrower hallways, the tip of his index finger brushing over strange carvings in the wall. It was almost as though they’d been trying to bring scenes to life in the stone.

It was fascinating and he could have stood there for days on end. Yet that was not his purpose of the time being. What he did need was to reach the maester’s chamber. An easy enough task. The part which followed worried him more. Every master kept bottles on ink in his chamber. Not every m aster left them in easily reachable places. Naturally he could climb for it, but he didn’t fancy another scar, thus Jon had to be smart about it. And not get caught. That would surely ruin his plans.

Glancing over his shoulder, the boy took note that one of the servants had stopped and was looking at him curiously. It was a boy, about his age, older might be, with skin darker than any he’d seen before, save once when his father had arrived home with a merchant of the Summer Isles.

“Where to?” the child questioned, hands on his hips, a perfect posture for censure. “You were supposed to sit with Their Graces.”

Their Graces, as the servant boy put it, were busy. Jon shook his head. “I need ink,” he spoke in as hard a voice as he could produce, trying to call to mind his father’s tone whenever he gave orders. It failed to impress the other, however, as he strode towards Jon.

“Whatever for? Even lordlings don’t learn their letters so early.” The last part was more of a grumble and despite the thick accent Jon still understood it. He narrowed his eyes and flashed his teeth.

“Shows what you know. I already know my letters.” Almost. There were still some questions which lingered about their Valyrian counterparts, but the Common Tongue scrawl had become less and less difficult to understand for some reason. Especially since Lady Ellaria practiced with them all. He scowled further at the intruder until the other held his palms up in a placating gesture.

“I can show you where it is. If you tell me why you need it.” Something like mischief reflected in the boy’s gaze. Jon wondered how he’d given himself away. Suspicion must have been even more transparent an emotion for the boy chuckled. “Why else would you have snuck away if you weren’t planning something?”

“I want revenge,” he admitted before long. In fact, his tongue was still burning from the handful of dried Dornish peppers he’d unfortunately swallowed with his tea. Aegon and Rhaenys had found it tremendously amusing.

“I thought you might.” He must have been in the great hall as well. Some servants did eat there or if not, they were tasked with filling cups. Jon nodded. “I’ll keep watch while you take the ink.”

“Sounds a fair plan to me,” he answered, “but don’t think to cross me.” The warning merely earned him a wild look.

“Here, let me show you the fastest way to reach the maester’s chamber,” his companion invited. Without further ado the two of them sped down the hallway. So caught up was Jon that he nearly did not notice the servant boy had a brooch hanging from his sleeve. It was broad, golden and encrusted with precious stones. Though it rested low on the sleeve and would have been hidden had Jon not been in such a position as to see it, his mind already conjured up possible explanations.     

“Wait,” he halted their progress, grabbing the taller boy by the shoulder. “What is that on your arm?” He pointed towards the inside.

“My mother’s,” the boy claimed dismissively. “The Maester is with His Grace. If we don’t hurry he’ll return and then we’ll never get the ink.” Between perfect revenge and burning curiosity Jon hesitated. Surely he could ask later who the boy was. “Come on then. We haven’t all day.”

“Aye,” he agreed in the end.   

 

          

      

 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm aware the chances are slim, but if you are in the mood tell me what you thought of my slightly more humane Cersei. I'm trying to unflatten her. And the rest, of course. 
> 
> Since it is Christmas and Christmas means family, here are three types of siblings relationships interlaced with what we love most out anything really, love.
> 
> Merry Christmas, everyone! Happy holidays to those who don't celebrate Christmas. And here's a little something to mark the occasion:
> 
> [ The Alchemist's Letter ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fXbf0QSiLv4)
> 
> [ Waltz Duet ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EUcRdKdGMxo)
> 
> Don't worry, both videos are short, but they are worth watching.


	28. Pale Horse

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her lover sat upon the bed with a forlorn expression plastered across his face. In such moments Ellaria was reminded why it was that she’d allowed her heart to fall into his hands. Sweet Elia still slumbered in her arms, the soft wheezing of her breath washing over the thin gauze of her kirtle. “You must be exhausted,” Ellaria spoke though she’d little wish to disrupt his contemplative state. Her voice barely rose above a whisper for all it sounded a thunder in her own ears.

Oberyn barely looked up. If she concentrated hard enough, he reckoned she’d be able to hear the beats of his heart. Every single one. As though they were her own. Elia squirmed in her hold, but did not wake. Apparently her daughter had developed a most fascinating for the exercise of uninterrupted repose. Not that Ellaria could rightly complain. A quiet Elia gave her more than enough time to speak to her father. Walking over to the child’s crib, she deposited the babe among the furs and placed a kiss upon her brow.

After she’d made certain naught would interrupt her daughter’s sleep, Ellaria turned towards the girl’s father and approached. Oberyn was, in the meantime, brushing a hand over his face in that manner which told her he’d had another disagreement with his brother. “No answer from King’s Landing yet?”

“None,” he offered tersely, looking at her at long last. Unease flittered through her, but she merely pursed her lips, indicating with a motion of the hand that he could go on. “If he is purposefully lengthening the rites, I will kill him.” Ellaria blinked at the outburst of violence. It did not surprise her precisely, nonetheless, she found herself intervening in a bid to alleviate his fears.

“I will not pretend to know the man’s mind, but it seems to me many a reason could explain the tardiness.” Seating herself next to him she bumped his shoulder gently with her own. “The Kingsguard boasts strong forces, my love. I advise leaving off murderous plans for until we stand in a position to contemplate such.”

Displeasure creased his features. “My sister has been subjected to more than enough insulting behaviour.” It became quite clear that his fixation upon the subject would not allow for other conversation. Resigning herself to her lot, Ellaria leaned her head against his shoulder, enjoying the warmth, if not the attention. “His lady wife is dead and he is nowhere to be found.”

“We will know soon enough.” The art of speaking words without meaning. She’d forgotten how much one could dance around a subject without reaching any sport of conclusion. “The children are here as well. Oberyn, do not judge too harshly.”

Scowling down at her, the Prince pushed her at arm’s length away. “I thought you at least would be sympathetic to my sister’s plight.” His eyes darkened further. Ellaria had a fair idea of what was going on through his mind. She scowled back, though with no heat behind it.

“I am.” The displayed disbelief did not daunt her. There were times when even sympathy covered too little for a wholesome understanding. “There is no reason to look at me in such a manner, I assure you. I am not saying he was right in his actions.”

“Then what are you saying?” he demanded, more than a tad forcefully than she thought necessary.

A sliver of annoyance gave her pause. Ellaria drew even further back, as though to escape his nearness. “Tell me truly, what bothers you more, the fact that a married man chose to find his pleasure elsewhere or the simple matter of him being your sister’s husband?” His mouth flattened to a grim line. That was clear enough for her. “These things are not so shocking.”

“She deserved better,” her lover maintained. Which held universally true for most brothers, Ellaria told herself gently so that her equilibrium would not be upset. “If it were you–“

“It is not me, though. This is not about me, lover.” It was not so very complicated. “This is about you and your unwillingness to keep yourself above the matter. Your sister, may the gods rest her soul, was never as helpless as you make her out to be. You of all people should know.”

Was she getting through to him? The trouble with his reaction was that, impulsive as her Prince was, one was never quite certain his conclusions were of a permanent kind. His brow furrowed, concentration evident. Indulging herself for the moment, Ellaria stood from her seat and began pacing the length of the chamber. Sitting for too long in one place was not quite to her taste.

“Are you saying I should be accepting?” Not that he would be even if she advised such a move.

She shook her head dismissively. “You are not helpless either. Ultimately what you choose to believe is for you to decide. I am merely asking that you consider the position you are adopting.” Surely it would not escape him. Silence greeted her statement.

“Do me the great honour of enlightening me, for I confess I do not understand your blathering, woman.” So much for the superior intelligence of the male species. At times, Ellaria wondered at this extreme change. Men could truly be brilliant in a number of fields. Put them before the emotions of others and their considerable mental faculties retained the consistency of honey in hot tea.   

“His attention towards Lord Stark’s daughter is of long standing, even more, he was far more discreet than he had need to be. I do not believe he meant to diminish your sister’s standing.” It was nowhere near acceptance, the emotion showing itself in Oberyn’s features, but it would have to be enough. “Every marriage includes two people. I believe she too was unhappy with the outcome of her mother’s scheme and would have fain wedded someone more suited to her tastes.”

“That is very poor consolation, indeed. He might not have wished her ill, but he certainly did her much of it.” A most regrettable course of action, she could see with just one look. Might be she was barking up the wrong tree. Might be there was no feasible change. “I should have insisted she not wed him.”

Recriminations aside, Elia Martell hadn’t struck her as some wilting violet who would listen to the will of others before her own. She daren’t point out that his sister had been perfectly capable of letting the King, and admittedly a good portion of the servants that had after spread the knowledge farther, know exactly what she thought of his entanglement with his paramour. Which was not to say her husband had honoured her wishes. Even so, when two strong wills met, clashes were inevitable. She could, certainly, go on and say that no action of the man he so despised took the Princess’ life, yet once more it became apparent to her that doing so would yield nary a victory. 

“Might be we ought to concentrate on what is left, Your Grace.” Encouragingly draping an arm across his shoulders, Ellaria plopped down in his lap. “Your dear sister might be gone, but she left something of herself behind.”

Oberyn was as fond of children as any other man. His own interested him before any others and indeed, of those, only the ones brave enough to enter his service were given value beyond that of mere seedlings. Warm breath fanned across her neck, distracting her from those carefully crafted thoughts. Although none of it was forgotten; as a mother to one of those seedlings, she would do well not to ever forget. That was more like it. She settled comfortably against the Prince and bent forth until her lips grazed his. “We are home now and we’d best enjoy it,” she urged, feeling his hand wide across her back. It was comforting to have him there, more so as she was secure in the knowledge that he would not be required to leave again for some time.

For as long as they could do so, at any rate. Before long Doran would have whirled Oberyn into the schemes and intrigue of court in which she had no place. Was it so very wrong to long for a little part of her lover concentrated just on her? Ellaria rather thought not.

“Have you noticed Avin Dalt, lover?” she questioned softly, bringing her fingers to his hair. He should trim it. “She’s grown. I hadn’t expected her to be quite so tall. But the rest of her has grown as well. Most charmingly.” Winding a lock of hair around her finger, she tugged gently.

“Do you want her?” He’d spoken the question aptly enough. Alas his heart was not in it. Ellaria did not push further. Instead she continued toying with his hair, holding back from humming. Why she should do so, she couldn’t tell, for he was usually not offended by her singing voice, unsuitable though it was.       

“Not particularly. I thought she might amuse you.” She let go. Once standing straight, Ellaria pushed her disappointment aside. “Elia has been cooped up for so long. I shall take her for a short walk.” Not without, for she knew better than to trust the Dornish night air, but the hallways were blissfully large and warm enough. Oberyn let her be, clearly more preoccupied with his own thoughts.

Her walk took the two of them through various corridors, some devoid of life, other boasting some late meeting lovers. If anyone thought the sight strange, they made no comment. Indeed, Ellaria was given no more attention than any one servant might be expected to receive. A suitable situation, as attention brought the danger of confession and aught told her Oberyn would not be amused. It was only as she reached the middle of the pathway that her vision landed upon a young servant boy. She had seen him about before.

He offered a respectful greeting and she forced herself to stop. The child approached her. “His Grace would see you, if ‘tis not inconvenient. He is waiting even as we speak.”

Refusing the invitation would be the height of reprehensible behaviour. And yet, Doran had never taken any sort of interest in her. Ellaria supposed there could be a number of reasonable explanations for the sudden change, but her mind kept conjuring the more worrisome options. “It would not do to farther keep His Grace waiting.”

Doran was, in fact, waiting. He was sitting by one of the lancets, watching the moon through the thin slit. The servant announced her presence and Ellaria found that she could not hold little Elia close enough. Nevertheless, at the man’s request she sat. “It cannot be comfortable carrying the child around for so long.”

“Your Grace is to be commended for his concern, yet, as a mother, I am not at all burdened.” A brief smile touched his features. Ellaria’s muscles relaxed. She daren’t ask what had made him summon her.

“You have been long in my brother’s company,” the Prince said after a brief silence that never quite had the time to settle. Ellaria nodded dutifully. “Then it is safe to say you know him fairly well.” Her response was a like one. “Why does he believe we need to avenge Elia?”

Had she been fainter of heart her jaw might have dropped. “What an idea, Your Grace. I doubt it to be the case.” He’d gone to Doran of all people with the marital troubles of his sister?

“Then my sister was not shamed?” They said Doran was the least reactionary Martell; Ellaria was starting to wonder if it was just a confusion prompted by his silent demeanour.

“I fear such a discussion is well beyond my scope of knowledge, Your Grace.” This was no battle to engage in and no problem of hers at all.

“I see. Apologies for having disturbed you then.” And with just that, she was dismissed from the Prince’s presence, child in tow.       

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

    

Aegon sneered as he kicked his leg into Jon’s side. The thin veins of darkness cracked the rosy surface of his lips. “Don’t think I’ve forgiven you.” Despite the words, he had insisted that Jon stay with him throughout the night along with Rhaenys. And Jon was more than pleased to admire the results of his work, thus he did not fuss at all at such a blatant attempt at vengeance.

“I do not require forgiveness,” he said, one step away from rolling his eyes to high heavens. “It was me who took revenge, Your Grace.” Why he felt compelled to point that out when at any moment Aegon could decide to use the confession against him was not aught he contemplated beyond the shadow of a thought.

The Prince’s eyes narrowed in a glare.  The rest of his face settled comfortably in a petulant scowl Jon had come to associate with sour moods. He let go of his first response, swallowing his own defiant scowl. The King’s son did not disappoint. “’Tis not the end of it. You had best watch out for peppers very carefully from now on”

A snort from the other side introduced the Prince’s sister into their conversation. “I cannot believe you did this to us.” Despite the somewhat mournful undulations of her voice, Jon could still detect a flicker of amusement in those words. “I cannot believe we fell for it.” She tittered. “And what a devious way you had about you too.” Was that admiration he detected?

Thin sharp silence cut through the comfortable and equally comforting sounds of human movement. It was not exactly uncomfortable. Jon shifted. He’d placed himself at the edge, purposefully holding himself at a distance from the brother and sister. It was not as though their chatter was not appreciated or their presence not seen as soothing, in a manner, but Jon missed his mother. The emptiness that had gnawed at him steadily throughout their stay in Sunspear had grown, day by day, hour by hour, until it curled into a tight ball of restlessness and discontent. His lips flattened momentarily. Jon had been telling himself that it made no matter, that it made no sense to feel what he was feeling, that he would soon be back into his mother’s arms. It was a very strange feeling. It was even stranger when he thought about it and realised the beginning of it all had been that little adventure with Renly through the caverns beneath Storm’s End.

He’d found his voice, but lost a bit of himself. A voice was a very important thing. While he’d not had it, or could not find the wherewithal to use it, Jon had often told himself that if he found his voice, he would never need anything else. That had been a lie. Or, if not that, for Jon hadn’t intended to lie himself into a corner of discontent, then it had to be an oversight.

A weight settled over his shoulders, shaking him gently. “Jon.” He snapped to attention, eyes settling on Rhaenys towering over him. She’d exchanged seats with her brother. “I’ve been calling your name forever.” Smiling sheepishly, he brought a hand up. Then he did not know what to do with it, thus he allowed the limb to fall back onto the sheets and furs. “Where did you go?”                

“Nowhere,” he replied without wasting one moment. His eyes trained on the faded ink staining her lips. The mark was definitely duller than the one Aegon sported. Rhaenys must have noticed where his eyes rested because she lowered herself back down onto the pillow, warm light spilling over them all. The candles were still burning. Aegon had insisted they keep them thus. Jon was much in support of the idea.

“I’ll find out one day.” It was a whisper. Jon knew she did not ask for an answer of any sort. Leaning more into him she whispered, “Lemon juice helps with all stains.” A grin, half-bathed in darkness stretched her lips. The she retreated. “I told Aegon he should have some as well.”

“Lemons are sour,” was the intelligent reply offered by the brother. There was a drop of petulance in his voice. “Your elbow is stabbing me in the ribs.” His complaint was ignored. Which was for the best, or so Jon told himself. “Rhaenys, take your elbow from my ribs.”

“Might be you should take pity on him,” Jon told the girl, if only to stop Aegon from complaining. Rhaenys was silent for a few moments and Aegon made a strange snorting sound, breath wheezing out. “I think you should.”

And then the Prince was tugging on his sister’s arm, demanding that she return to her own side. His sister did little other than comply, moving sluggishly to the previous place she occupied. There were no words exchanged. Jon thought it best not to comment on that. He thought it best not to comment on anything at all. The pressure on his chest eased. It was not gone. It would never be completely gone, he suspected. But might be it might not need to at any rate. There was aught to be said about reminders and he did not find his very hard to bear, just a tad strange for all it brought with it.          

Before long Aegon had returned to his own spot. He muttered something Jon could not catch. It was not important that he hear anything of that monologue. It was but a faint whisper. He turned on his side, hiding his eyes from the firelight. It still flickered a bit, light dancing across the walls, pulling the strings on the shadow puppets. They frolicked happily across the expanse of the carpeted walls, as though mocking the still figures in bed.

“We should sleep,” he encouraged, not certain the other two were paying enough attention to catch the words. There was no answer to be had from them. Jon relaxed into a haze of sleep. Something brushed against his back. He ignored it in favour of seeking sleep.      

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

  

Rhaegar thumbed through the pages of an old tome. “I daresay you have most peculiar interests.” _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms_ was placed upon the heavy table that had been positioned in the middle of the library. “This book does look well-read.”

“And much cherished,” Lord Arryn assured him, his gruff voice, despite the lively intonation, gave very little away. Should Rhaegar concern himself with the worries of others, he might have suspected his vassal of aught nefarious, or at the very least unwise. “There is much to be said about the certainty of such information as the ones contained within these pages.”    

He agreed noncommittally. There was very little he might say to that. “I would like to hear again about the attack, if you will.” He sat down, a small smile flickering upon his face. The lord did not seem pleased. But then Rhaegar knew he was not, by an account, pleased. Not that he blamed him. The man must still carry a bit of bitterness at the whole, more or less, scandalous episode in King’s Landing.

“I do believe we should dispense with the pretense, Your Majesty.” His own eyebrow rose in reply at that. “I am not in the habit of mincing words, though I know at Court it certainly is norm. With that in mind, I ask the permission to be blunt.”

“You have it.” It ought to be interesting. Rhaegar leaned back in his seat, two legs rising from the ground. If there was anything which might amuse him for the time being until he could see Lyanna once more, this had to be it.

“I will not tolerate aspersions cast on the memory of the late Lord Baratheon. No matter that Lady Lyanna is now a widow, and twice so, I have a moral duty to Robert.” He blinked slowly, the blue of his eyes flaring with a sudden fire. “Whatever Your Majesty wishes to do is not so much my concern and I cannot hope to convince anyone that my intentions are of the best sort, but I must insist upon a modicum of decorum.”

Rhaegar continued to watch him with nary a word upon his lips. He supposed that the man sounded much like a concerned father. The sort of good fortune Robert Baratheon seemed to possess in life ought not to have mattered. He cut off a sigh. The needling feeling stabbing at him should have not bothered him. He’d spent his whole life with such contemplations. “You must have been very close to him, my lord.”

“He was my charge for a time.” That was explanation enough. It was natural he might develop a strong bond. “Along with Eddard Stark. You might understand, Your Majesty, that such ties between our houses were encouraged. Between Lord Rickard, Lord Steffon and I, we had much of it worked out. I suppose I might speak of it now that the matter is over.”

A gust of wind swept past him, nearly lifting a piece of paper from the tabletop. “Do go on.” He reached of the wine, taking a sip. The spices were fairly strong. Might be it had to do with the frightful cold. “What I am understanding is that there was some sort of agreement.”

“Indeed, something of the sort came to pass between the three of us. Since Rickard was the only one who was blessed by the gods with a daughter, it seemed prudent to betroth the girl to young Robert.” With no account of how young Lyanna had felt, but then no one’s feelings were taken into account. Marriages were arranged to be advantageous. “One of Robert’s daughters was to have married in this house during his lifetime. It never came to pass.”

“I believe Stannis Baratheon is yet capable of siring children. You should look to him for a Baratheon daughter.” If only the man would take a bride. Somehow the image was mildly amusing when it ought not to have been. He was not at all a bad man. Might be, though, he was not suited for a marriage either. “What purpose would this pact have served?”

“Protection, collaboration; the usual, Your Majesty. At the time we first spoke of it, your father, may the Seven rest him, had just escaped the clutches of Lord Darklyn. Those were dark times, and uncertain. Denys Darklyn’s demise left a void to be filled and, I confess, we were quite eager to fill that void.” Who would not have been? “Lord Stark got his wish, to be certain.”

“I don’t suppose you blame the man.” It was good fortune that his daughter might have captivated him so thoroughly. Lord Arryn shook his head.

“His duty is to his house. It would be rather strange to be so.” It seemed to him that some of the antipathy had lessened. “And he has fulfilled it exceedingly well. I was much surprised to have him as Lord Hand. Word was that Your Majesty would turn to Tywin Lannister.”                     

“Lord Lannister is in possession of practical knowledge and, if anything, his tenure as Hand of the King has been nothing short of amazing. But the trouble with lions is they are never truly domesticated enough to be kept close.” He drummed his fingers against the wooden top. The sound was made stronger by the silence.

“Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,” Jon Arryn spoke. “If, that is, Your Majesty counts Lord Lannister among his enemies, that is. Or is he a friend?” He dragged his fingers through his hair and a muffled sound passed his lips. “I do not suppose any of it to be my business.”

“Not at all. But he is neither friend, nor foe, for the moment.” Safe to say, much as he enjoyed the distraction, he was not about to enter any manner of arrangement. “I have kept you long enough, my lord.”

“Not as long as I kept you, I imagine. Pray do not forget our conversation, Your Majesty.” Rhaegar stood with a light smile. He needed no words for that. In fact, he’d acquitted himself of the whole thing. And he was finally free to spend some hours in the company of the woman, at long last.

Lyanna he found with the babe, pulling faces for the attentive eyes of the child. Her servant girl bustled about the chamber, prattling. Lyanna did not mind her anymore than he. Thus she was dismissed with a small gesture and an assurance that she might finish her tasks at a later time. The mother did pause in her face-making to throw him a look. “You cannot simply handle the poor girl like that, Rhaegar. Her sweet little heart might burst.”

“You should not concern yourself with the heart of any one person, my dear.” The bar was brought down with a sharp sound. He came closer and took the child from her arms. Alys gurgled, though it seemed not to be an articulate thought in articulate manner. She swiped her hand up, catching a small chain. Her fingers wrapped around it and tugged. “You like it that much?” he chuckled.

“Do not even consider it,” Lyanna warned from her seat, drawing her lips together in a tight purse. “She will likely chew on it and I fear her gums wouldn’t be able to cope with the pressure.” Rhaegar looked up from Alys’ face to Lyanna’s. He was not at all convinced by the assessment. “Clearly,” she clucked her tongue, “you have not dealt with babes and hurt gums.”

He laughed, lifted Alys against his shoulder and paced about the room. Given the soft sounds she made, his daughter was content with the exercise. “I will not credit it. She is a sweet-tempered child and exceedingly quiet. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a quiet babe.”

“Jon was quiet as well.” He stopped and turned to face her. The she-wolf lounged close to the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping unevenly beneath the weight of her body. “Before, I mean. He’s always been quiet, I suppose, and I’d wondered why, for some babes are never quiet.” Her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It does not bear thinking about.”

“I do not mind, you know?” She started. But then she stretched and the unease followed that movement until it snapped and faded into nonexistence. Just as well as he’d not a mind for scenes. Thus he decided to expand upon that. “I do not mind you speaking about Jon. Indeed, I daresay I can live a full lifetime listening to you do so.”

Her snort exacted a genuine smile from him. “Would you now? Then you are much in the minority for most men I know do so hate listening to the prattling of women. I suppose I would hate it too in their stead. It must seem awfully boring.” The wooden frame of the bed creaked and Lyanna shifted. She’d never been good at keeping still.

“Is it then? Boring, I mean.” She seemed to consider his question and he returned his attention to Alys who was captivated by a ray of sunlight, trying to catch its pale glow.  Her fist closed around the thin line and then opened expectantly, as though stray shards of sunlight might have stuck to her skin. He could not decide if he saw disappointment in her face or not when she came up short. Whatever the case, Alys was not about to give up, for she threw herself into the task and made another valiant attempt at taking a shred of light prisoner.

“I would not call it boring,” Lyanna finally spoke, distracting him. “There is certainly more than enough in a child to keep one’s attention and most of the time there is not a moment of peace. But I suspect it does not hold a candle to other activities. Not for men, that is. But I do believe most women are content with it.”

A knock on the door cut through the mood. It was more than enough to have her jump to her feet and take Alys in the protective circle of her arms while he saw to whomever it was that found it appropriate to interrupt them. At the door was none other than the keep’s master. He spoke in a soft, slow voice and for a brief moment Rhaegar was not quite certain what the man was saying for it was only the first words that registered in his mind. He spoke of rather ill news.

Thus, not wishing to alarm Lyanna, he stepped over the threshold and pulled the door in his wake. “I am afraid you shall have to repeat that, my good man. I don’t believe I’ve heard you correctly.”

“There is a raven from King’s Landing, Your Majesty,” the man repeated, his face betraying nothing at all. “It concerns Her Majesty the Queen.” The message was given to him at long last and he could concentrate on the words in the void arising.

And then the words began to make sense. Rhaegar wished they hadn’t. “You are quite certain this is truly from King’s Landing?” The man nodded, not that he paid him mind. He felt unsteady. It was difficult to even fathom the truth of the news.  

Elia. Dead. He wrapped his head around the knowledge slowly, easing himself into the truth of the matter with hesitation. Aegon and Rhaenys must be waiting for him; they must be frightened. Or disconcerted. Or anywhere near that. The point was they had need of him and he had little doubt his absence stimulated the mill of rumours.  

 “I should like a moment,” he heard himself say. It was accepted without fuss. And, as though he were a puppet lead by strings, he pushed the door open and re-joined Lyanna. She eyed him with concern. “I have to leave.”

“What happened?” The question was quiet, but her interest teemed beneath the thin veneer of politeness.

She would find out at some point. Better from him and now. “It seems my lady wife joined the Stranger upon a final journey.” Good gods, his wife was dead. Rhaegar pinned Lyanna with a look. She did not bother covering her grasp.

  

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Incredibly enough, I haven't forgotten about this story. Hope you enjoyed the chapter.
> 
> I tried to pinch in a bit of everything, but I grew bored halfway through so you'll have to make do.
> 
> Clue: Nb zggriv rh mlrhvovhh dsvm R givzw gsv vzigs, Ivhg rm rgh wdvoormth li irwv rgh dzgvih.  
> Zg grnvh nb krmrlmh zmw gsv olugb zri, Orug nv srts l'vi gsv slnvh lu nvm,  
> Zmw gsv hgivmtgs lu gsv xolfwh xziirvh nv uzi Srts levi gsv ulop. Nb uvzgsvih tzb  
> Hlfmw zmw nzpv nfhrx, hrmtrmt hsiroo, Dsvm ml olmtvi R ormtvi yb urvow li uollw,  
> Yfg hlzi rm gsv zri, z dzmwvirmt hkrirg.
> 
>  
> 
> By the by, this is a riddle. The answer should be interpreted symbolically. I do wonder what interpretation you'll give. Do let me know.


	29. Dark Things

 

 

 

 

 

 

The piece of paper contained an orderly listing of the symbolic appearances. Aemon traced a finger over the first item. Birds. A trio of them even. The singularly peculiar coincidence of such a relevant number in combination with the unexpected Northern slant gave one pause. And enough of it to warrant inspection within older tomes, where knowledge, fresh in those days, had been carefully recorded. Only that Aemon’s sight was not what it once used to be, nor his knowledge of the Old Tongue quite as sharp. He’d rarely had cause to consult the runic inscriptions. But not that he had enough cause and a niggling mystery to solve, he could no longer avoid the dusty parchments.

His eyes moved to the dead weirwood and the flowering bushes near its roots. It was even more perplexing. Might be the trouble was with the weirwood and not with the land. How else could other plants thrive, but not a strongly rooted life? And the flower had been a mere bud, white and yellow, stained with blood from the fallen. Red also then. Aemon pressed the tip of his fingers against a small blot. The word beneath was not difficult to read, but the blemish still irked.

“I know not why you bother with such matters,” Mance voiced from over his shoulder, placing a small inkwell upon the table. The quill followed, dropping into the gaping orifice of the bottle. The fall was marked with droplets splashing over the rim and onto his hand. “It makes no sense that a child so young would even remember his dreams accurately. ‘Tis most likely a story spun to grab someone’s attention.”

“Nevertheless, I was asked to look into it and I shall,” he chuckled in response to the impatience of his companion. “And only think if the boy truly were drawing upon knowledge the rest of us may not partake in. This could have unforeseen consequences.”

“As in the boy losing his mind and murdering everyone in sight. Seers are not stable persons. You have it in every possible tale where one asks to hear of one’s future. Where you put the price of these predictions is astronomically high compared to their value. We all die someday. What does the how, where and when matter?” Wood scraped against wood with an unpleasantly shrill sound, dragging across a short length as Mance occupied a seat. “And this is birds, not dragons.”

“Birds are still avian creatures. ‘Tis enough that they fly,” Aemon found himself explaining. “But I am not intrigued by the birds. They are fairly clear in their meaning.” Mance’s eyebrow rose. “A family. The child did not distinguish between them save to say two were eating and one was not.”

“The bark of a dead tree,” the man released in a sudden rush, cheeks flaming. “A weirwood nonetheless. Gods reside within those bodies of wood and bark. Are you suggesting they are pestering a god who is no longer in existence?”

“Exactly my point, only that there was no god to begin with.” It was a ludicrous thought, to still believe there were actual gods trapped, or staying there of their own accord, in carved trees. But tradition did matter. “The boy never mentioned a carved face. We are not dealing with a deity. We are dealing with a principle. A principle two bird are pecking at, thus eating, that is internalising.”

“But you cannot possibly pinpoint what this principle is,” Mance exclaimed, seemingly enthralled with the thought. “Thus it is not very relevant a discussion, measter.”

“That is where you’re wrong, my boy. It is possible to pinpoint the principle. Recall that two of the birds turn upon each other.” Mance nodded. Aemon allowed himself a smile. “It is this which allegedly injures the third. What could possibly have such an effect when what we witness is a mere bout between the other two?” Aught shot to life in the other man’s gaze; awareness was finally worming its way in.

“You are saying they have some power over the third. Enough power that their bickering results in serious injury. Is the boy dreaming about an upset in the balance of power? What about the flower bud then?” While it was clear to him Mance had yet to be convinced, it was more than enough to have someone to talk it over with. “Presumably, this takes place at dawn as well, for night follows swiftly.”

“The flower is seven-petaled. Presumably it ties in with the seven aspects of the Faith. However, we might well be speaking about a concentration of power through blood sacrifice. The Seven do not ask for blood.” Blood magic was a definite suspect. “But then what is the purpose of the yellow centre?”

Mance shrugged his shoulders and took the piece of paper between his fingers. “Cymran the Fair wore a golden garland at his brother’s crowning.” That was a fair point. “But that means we may not be looking at gods at all, but at false ones.”

“False ones?” He drew in a slight breath. “So out three little birds are damned. Might be they are not false gods, just powerless ones. So close to the weirwood as well. The flower is in a bush at the roots of the tree.”

“Quite the distance to fall,” came the swift agreement of his collocutor. “What of the night then.”

“Death, most likely, for all our injured friend struggles The bird must be caught in the bush, still unsteady from the fall. It’s attempt to take flight might well be a sign of concern at what approaches. Too bad the boy could not remember that.” Aemon took back the message and placed it upon the table. He held a candle over it. “This has proved to be more fruitful than I imagined.”

“Might be if one has no other form of excitement in their lives,” Mance drawled, a flicker of amusement upon his face.

“What a sharp tongue you have. Better keep careful watch over it.” Aemon chuckled. At the very least they had found out more than enough to write of.  Mance followed his lead, slapping a hand to his knee before he stood to his feet and shook the wrinkles out of his long tunic. “Be off with you then. There must be some sword calling your attention.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clue: ABAAA ABABBABBBABABABAABAA BBAAAABBBABABAA AAAAABAABA AAABAAABAABAAABBAABBAAAAAABAAAABBAB AAABBAAAAABAAABABABA BAABBAABBBABAAAABBABAABBABAABA AAAAABAAABAABAA BAABBABBBA AAAABAABAA ABABBABBBABABABAABAAAAABB ABAAAABBAB BAABAAABAAAAABABAAABAABAABAABB AAAABAABAABAABBBABBAAABAAAABAAABBAB BAABBAABBBAABAA BAABAAABBBAAAAAAAABBABBBABABBA AAAAAABBABAAABB BAABBAABBBAABAA BAABAABBBABABAAABABB 
> 
> There is a reason for which this is a separate chapter. See if you can guess it.


	30. Sea Without Sun

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Dornishwoman, while not having retained a marvellous figure and porcelain skin after becoming a mother, was nevertheless very pleased with herself. So much so that the very look of slight fatigue she wore looked upon her as jewels looked upon other women. Rhaella gave her a long look, but did not comment upon the loose hair. “I was very glad to hear there have been no problems. One’s first child is often the most difficult delivery.” She thought back to her first birthing experience but did not allow herself the luxury of lingering. Instead, she avoided the lively gaze of her collocutor, preferring to gaze upon a row of figurines she’d been gifted with when still a maiden. The biggest of them was the length of her own forearm.

“Marna was no trouble at all,” Ashara assured, her beaming lips adding to the effect of wellness. “And I had the best care one could hope for. And my husband, of course. He was so sweet, Your Grace, to stand before the chamber doors for all those hours. It must not have been comfortable.” It was the wringing of her hands which called Rhaella’s attention. Was she in some distress? Ashara looked down as well, then her smile dimmed. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace, I am rather anxious about Marna being alone.”

“First child,” Rhaella murmured, imbuing the words with a wealth of meaning. “’Tis not difficult to see that motherhood suits you well. Some women are not as lucky, I perceive. Some not at all. And sometimes the gods give to those who do not wish it in the least.” Her own lips curved upwards. “I daresay your daughter hasn’t much need of you yet. She does have a wetnurse, does she not?”

“Aye. Good-father took care of it all for us. He has been most solicitous. I had not expected it of him.” Leaning in expectantly at that bit of information, Rhaella prompted her with a curious nod. “Though they say youth and patience do not mix well, I have observed my good-feather had still retained the impatience of youth. ‘Tis a tad strange to think of him as regarding such matters as the birth of a child with much interest. Though why I should think it, I do not know. Except that Marna is not even his first granddaughter.” Ashara paused to take a deep breath.

Taking advantage, she swooped in. “It might well be a passing fancy. Men oft show interest in the new only to drop it after.” She realized a moment later her words might have been too harsh, thus she hurried to sweeten them. “Not that Lord Stark strikes me as such a man. He is a responsible one, dare I say.”

“Indeed he is, Your Grace, and I throw his sons are much the same. With such an example, how could they not be?” Worry pressed the woman’s features. “Your Grace, I do not wish to pry, nor should I wish to be perceived as impertinent, but I was wondering, regarding Her Majesty the Queen–“

“That is a matter I know little enough of.” Rhaella sighed. Once upon a time, nearly a lifetime ago, Ashara had come to court as one of Elia’s women. She’d been a youthful, cheerful girl, always with an open smile upon her face. Much in the vein of her brother. But she’d not been all that close to Elia. “Were you wishing to go to Sunspear as well?”

“Would that it were possible,” came the answer. “I cannot leave my daughter for that long and a journey is not advisable. I confess the notion brings me some pain. We were companions for some time, years even. It feels disloyal not to be there.” Yet it had not felt disloyal to wed the brother of her rival. Rhaella could not say she understood the fine tuning of the other’s mind, the heart she did comprehend.

“She would not begrudge you this much, I reckon.” Her eyes once again slid to the figurines and their painted faces. Light-coloured eyes stared back at her, as though they were living, breathing things. The last figurine had a missing arm. Viserys had someone tugged it off. Rhaella only recalled the fury she’d felt. “Indeed, such a kind soul would never do aught of the manner. My good-daughter was a true lady, in both breeding and comport.” The worrisome thing was that her absence allowed for more than Rhaella was willing to accept though. Eyeing Ashara she posed the question she’d been hoping to reach, “Have you word from your good-sister? I’d heard she ran into a spot of trouble.”

Aught like astonishment registered upon the other’s face. She swallowed gently, reaching for her tea. Parched, was she? Rhaella waited for her to drink. “One hears such frightening stories, Your Grace knows how it is. But we were assured she was well and that her child was well. I have no doubt that in time she will make the journey back to Winterfell as she planned and the mayhap return to Rosby Hall.”

“You are certain? It was my impression she found court most stimulating.” This time the woman nearly dropped her cup. Careful not to allow aught to show, Rhaella moved to pick up her own drink. She’d mixed a tad of wine with her tea, for boredom knew no bounds. “Pray do not be put off by my questions, Lady Ashara. I am an old woman, lonely in my dark age and needful of some words every now and again.”

The uneasy smile she was rewarded with satisfied immensely. “There has been naught to give me an inkling of suspicion, Your Grace, that she might make for King’s Landing. All I know is she planned to reach Winterfell.” So much for wily tongues and brave maidens. “I am afraid she has not written to me directly, but I expect she will soon.”

“I do wish I’d had a larger extended family,” she allowed after a moment of repose. “’Tis most cruel to have only a brother close in age, for you know boys and girl are so very different. Aerys was rarely willing to me to join on any adventures. And then he went away to squire and I was quite alone. But for my ladies-in-waiting, forsooth.”

“Forsooth,” Ashara agreed. She had returned to her earlier state, the tension having left her. “I cannot complain for a lack of siblings, but I do know what it is to have two older brothers and not all that much room or time to hide from their pranks. Such little devious bundles, my brothers were.” A fond smile presented itself upon her features.         

“Don’t I know it?” Rhaella waved her hand for emphasis. “Your brother and my son have wandered these halls together in search of trouble almost from the moment they met. Rhaegar has never met a scrape he did not like and Ser Arthur, I suspect, has never known a wild path he did not take. Between the two of them, the servants and household knights learned the meaning of terror.”

Laughter came from Ashara. “I recall, Your Grace, a story my brother is very fond of telling. Involving a couple of fish in the wine that was to be served at a feast.”

“So that was them. It was my suspicion, I confess, but I never pursued it, afraid of what I might learn.” Her smile this time was genuine. “It seems that after all these years, my fears have been confirmed. Just so I may die without regrets, my lady, be so kind as to entertain me with the tale.” Depositing both hands upon her lap, she listened with unfeigned attention as the Dornishwoman began her tale without a single falter.

“’Twas some years ago, I believe, when the King had ordered many a carts of fine Dornish wine and Arbor sweet for the visit of, if I recall correctly, Lord Baratheon. Since they’d spent much of their youth together, it was natural he would take great care in the planning.” Ashara relaxed further in her seat, clearly pleased with how matters were proceeding. “Only that his plans were about to be foiled. In his keep were two young boys. They had grown bored with lessons and writing and such matters. And what was one to do?” She nodded at her own wittiness. “Thus, a daring contest began. Two sacks of flour and a few pillow-fulls of feathers later, they had exhausted the patience of their peers and had just learned that the kitchens were milling with life. So off they went. And indeed, when poor Cook appeared distracted, they made their way about in search of scraps and found them in the form of rotting fish. The fish was quickly deposited in the first barrel of wine they saw and promptly forgotten, only fate had another idea entirely. It was this very barrel, from all the others, which was selected to begin the feast. I am rather confused as to whether the wine was as Dornish as I, but I do know it was like naught anyone had ever tasted.”    

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The row of candles near the entrance were almost all of them burning with a low glow, casting the bronze of their light upon the grey, dull stone beneath, above and all around. The smell of tallow permeated the narrow hall, rendering the mood solemn without the need of aught else to aid. Lyanna drew closer to the gathering of lights and picked out one of the few ones that had gone out. She lifted it to a neighbouring flame and cupped her free palm around the slowly forming blaze. A draft came in from the door which had remained ajar. Once satisfied the candle would not go out, she put it back in place, then proceeded to repeat those actions for all the ones in like situations. Before long, the string of lights ran uninterrupted and merrier, for all she could determine. She half-recalled Septon Merret praising her diligence in such matters. She’d never had the heart to tell him for her unevenness of any kind was rather like a thorn in the side.

Gazing downwards, she met the thick, somewhat roughhewn rug adorning the floors. It was a wide strip of cloth, embroidered with little finesse. She’d understood from Elbert that the figures had been sewn by a long-dead Arryn female and had been upon these floors since the Age of Dawn. In fact, for someone who professed his interest to lie elsewhere other than the keep, Elbert knew a whole lot. Might be septons were good at aught other than boring poor Renly and other boys to death. A small smile crossed her lips, only to be lost as the wind gave another howl.

Oddly fitting that such weather should accompany such events. Her heart squeezed. It was difficult for her to maintain a constant emotion even as she told herself she’d played no part in the affair. That surely whatever had ailed the woman did not connect to her. But that would be a lie, would it not? To make herself out as blameless. In her darker moment, Lyanna was well aware, she had considered the Queen’s frail health liable to offer a solution to her dilemma. What a thing to think. What a pitiful, wretched thing to think. Much a wonder she’d not been struck down. A sigh left her lips as she squared her shoulders, eyes still upon the figures rolling along the carpet. Some of the string had come apart and along the edges the rug looked threadbare and worn.     

“I suppose you are some lord or king whose name has been lost to the passing of time,” she whispered to a young man whose arms were wrapped around a fair woman. Might be it was Hugor of the Hill. She could barely make out a crown in seven points upon the man’s head. This was a sept after all. It made sense that such a piece would precede one’s meeting with the gods. A reminder of the fragility of their creation, mayhap. Granted she could be in the wrong. Why would the Arryns take to Hugor of the Hill? Forsooth they had their own blessed kings to embroider upon a tapestry. Even one so crudely fashioned. Were she a tad braver, she might have knelt to inspect the picture further. Alas, the thought of someone walking in on her sent shiver down her spine. Lyanna was not quite ready to commit herself to insanity yet; there were still a few things she had a mind to do before she fell into that particularly treacherous embrace. She’d come here with a purpose in mind and she would see it through.

As soon as her spine straightened itself and the chill melted from her bones and her stomach unglued itself from said curled spine. Another sigh found its way in the vestibule’s limited space, rising in a puff of steam. Despite the thick cloak on her shoulders, she could not seem to fend off the cold. In a sept, of all places; a flicker of unwanted amusement captivated her imagination for all of a couple of heartbeats. She’d thought believers were protected from the elements at least. It seemed that she was asking for too much. And she was not a believer, her mind was quick to point out. Furthermore, she’d come within these walls a sinner. And likely doubly so. Yet it was not with sin in mind or heart that she came. Surely that counted for something. Even as insignificant as a break in the continual rivulet of guilt coursing through her.

Lyanna stiffened at a creak coming from further within. She could turn back, It was not too late and she was not that much of brave soul to deny the fear she felt. In fact, she was perfectly capable of admitting her lace of courage; she was craven in the face of unforgiving foreign gods. The gods of two dead husbands. Old bits of remorse and fresh ones had a liking for mingling.

It would be best to return to her chambers and the roaring fires. Might be Rhaegar had no need of her after all. Mayhap all he wished was to be left alone for a short while, as he’d claimed. He would be leaving soon though. This was her last chance of taking her fill of his presence. She did not need him to pretend ease in her company or even delight. If he suffered, she would not balk at him weeping and if he yearned for quiet, she would not speak at all. But if she was to endure the night of his absence a few stray beams of sunlight would well see her through.

She drew in a sharp breath and once more prepared for a confrontation. Her spine had not deserted her after all. Lyanna did not rush. She took cautious steps to the door and reached out for the thin handle. The wood was old, well cared for and carved with symbols she’d likely seen in other septs. Except for the ones at the very top. Those looked more like runes to her, of the Old Tongue. Might be she was mistaken. Lyanna shook the thought away and pressed her weight against the wooden form, pushing it open.

Its whine reverberated through the cavernous walls, bouncing against the stones. The sept was half pressed into the mountain’s side. It boasted large chambers, one for prayer, where the statues of the Seven rested, and another to serve as chambers for the septon. But it was awfully drafty. Unless the man was young, and he was not, he would feel the wind all through his bones.

It took but a glimpse to locate Rhaegar. He was seated at the front, in one of the pews, head bent, face possibly resting in his hands. He was hunched over. Lyanna heard not a sound, he did not react to her or the door’s opening. Might be he hoped whoever had entered left upon seeing him. She would not humour him if that was his desire. Stepping firmly within the sacred space, she dropped her shin in the fur line of her cloak and inspected her surroundings as her feet carried her to the sole other occupant of the chamber.

She sat down with nary a whisper, not even as much as a question of whether he minded. Keeping her eyes averted was a struggle. Nearing him she had taken note of not only the sadness which veiled him but of a sense of guilt. What else could bend a man so? He’d not loved Elia anymore than she had adored Robert. It must follow that he felt guilty then; guilty might be that he’d not been near to avert the disaster, or that he’d not been careful enough.

Neither did Lyanna reach out to touch Rhaegar. He might not find comfort in her interference, thus she ought to slowly warm him to her presence. She breathed steadily, dragging air in and spilling it out. Her ears picked up on the subtle rhythm; she could even hear the beating of her own heart. The thumps dragged one after the other, measured and even, weighed down by some invisible burden. She could not hear his heart. Still, she refused to look at him. Not for fear of offering pity; Rhaegar would nit, she believe find he had need of it, not would he thrill at such a gift; but he was much greater than to turn it away. Not even for fear of goading his ire. Nay, she did not look for if she looked she would want to offer a piece of herself. If he turned that away, the wound would be too deep.

Never make mountains out of molehill. Sage advice. Were she in a better mood she might have observed that the idea could well apply to her own situation at the very moment. She was not, however. And it was more than enough reason not to think too deeply upon it.  

Thus she eyed the Father. The patriarch was seated upon his throne, a simple enough chair in form. The fair whiteness of the marble he wore for skin shone against the dark marble used to clothe him. Porphyritic stone and precious gems adorned his garments, falling in swatches of sculpted cloth corners. Lyanna knew none of the stones by name and suspected they’d been mined for their lively colours and aesthetic effect. The father wore his garments proudly, holding in his hand the scale. It was perfectly balanced, accented with gold and white gold. Fine craftsmanship. The god bore a stern expression, as though he could not fathom of smiles and aught else but the scales and their great import. A bit like Ned, were anyone to ask her.  No one had though and she doubted her brother would be very pleased with the comparison. Besides, she had no wish to incite the Faith. 

Her gaze shifted to the Mother. Whoever the craftsman had used for his model, she must have been a comely creature. The nurturing roundness of the moon-shaped face boasted a fine snub-nose between wide empty eyes. It should have been unnerving to have her staring so intently at the rows of believers come to worship. But despite the direction of her gaze, it never felt as though her attention was upon them. The statue’s mouth curled ever so slightly at the sides in the beginning of a smile. It was a dreamy look. As though she was somewhere far away. She looked lovely in white marble. The small babe she help upon her knee, straddles her leg. Its own stubby legs fell to the dies, one lost in the folds of the Mother’s skirts, the other clear in view. He was a chubby little thing. Was he even a he? For some reason she could not fathom it being anything other than a boy.   

The Maiden by contrast was a sharp-faced thing, the marble carved with precision lacking in the mother. Her thin, gaunt face was not unattractive, but there was something cool about her demeanour, as though she twirled in higher spheres. Very likely she did. Her gown was adorned with flowery pattern, sliver-thin silver strands running in petals and leaves. An unlit candle was held in her hand, thick and vaguely green. They’d made that candle out of bayberry wax, Lyanna thought, wondering if the scent was the slightly bitter mixed with a hint of sweetness she remembered from her own youth. She did recall having an interest in the craft when a Southron chandler had somehow landed in Winterfell from wherever he hailed. Bayberry wax candles had been the ones she liked most for the smell was less sweet than that of beeswax. Best not to linger for too long on such thoughts.    

Following the Maiden was the Warrior. He sat as well, only he was in full armour and across his lap was draped a sword. It was a great sword, judging by its length and width. Unlike the white marble of the statue, with its golden lines, the sword had been crafted out of metal. It shone brilliantly, its gleam menacing. Lyanna almost wondered if the grim-faced soldier would climb to his feet one day and wield his weapon to spill much blood. It was definitely a notion that did not seem so very strange when one glanced at the brilliant white, only slightly chipped by time. She wondered if whoever had sculpted the Seven had done so with certain individuals in mind. There was an odd sort of uniqueness to the faces. Character, one might even say. Certainly more of it than half the men and women she knew. Might be she was being too harsh. It was time to move past the Warrior and his blade.       

A rather bulky representation of the Smith proved a difficult sight for her eyes. Not that Lyanna was unaware that a certain strength was needed for better results in the forge. But these were gods. It was a sept they adorned. Could they not have at least given the Smith a pleasant face? He looked as though he was waiting for a fool to ease of his coin. On the other hand, such a visage suggested that her earlier theory might have more than just a seedling of truth to it. She wrinkled her nose. The faint sent of smoke tickled her nostrils. Benjen would have appreciated a jest on account of overcrowded forges. She doubted anyone else would. Without her meaning to she shifted. From the corner of her eye Lyanna detected the shadow of a movement on Rhaegar’s part. Once more she declined looking. Might be once she was feeling more confident, more at ease in her own skin.

Forcing her attention to the Crone, Lyanna noted the lamp after a quick perusal. It was what stood out, beside a wizened face which must have taken hours upon hours of carving to get just right. It reminded her of Nan on a cold winter’s night, taking delight in the fright she and Benjen willingly exhibited at the mere mention of otherworldly creatures. The lamp dangles before her, square and walled by spun glass. There was a candle within, this one beeswax. It seemed oddly appropriate. If one was to undertake a journey they should have some light which did not choke them for all eternity.                 

Last, but not least, except in matters of worship, was the Stranger. He had been sat apart from the rest of his brethren and the craftsman had chosen only blacks and greys for this figure. Even the hands, which were uncovered, had been carved out of grey stone. A skull rested between those hands. It was the single white marble piece. If that did not go to show the Stranger was for the most part neglected, than the lack of adornments made it very much clear. Were she in his stead, she might have taken offence. Might be he had and no one knew of it.

Movement registered from her left side. Lyanna started. She’d almost convinced herself she would never be prepared to glance at her side. It would have been best to stand and leave, mayhap. Or not. It seemed she was no longer standing next to a sack of grain. Thus she did look. Briefly, half-heartedly. Only a glimpse. He was not looking at her. His eyes were upon the Father. What was he contemplating. His hands were still moving, twisting something between his fingers. It was a ring. A heavy piece, ruby set in gold. But it was rather small. She tried to recall if he wore any such adornment upon his fingers. He must. Though there was little light in the sept, even with the candles burning along the walls and the lit sconces, the ruby still caught the faint glow, transforming the sparks into fiery cinders, still red from the lick of the flame. She almost allowed her hand to shoot out and put an end to the movement. Lyanna did not venture to do that however.

Ought she ask him how he fared? That would be unnecessary. She knew how he felt. To be so aware of another person was as much a burden as it was a blessing. On this day, it fairy broke her heart, because it was clear he was suffering. Would that he unburdened himself to her. She would never tell. She would not judge. Ought she tell him again that she loved him? Did he need reaffirmation? Most probably not. This was not about them, after all, it was just about him and his wife and it would be prudent to let lying dogs sleep. Her foot tapped against the floors.

Rhaegar’s gaze slid to her. In a whip-fast movement, she found herself the centre of his attention. Lyanna met his eyes, trying to imbue her own with understanding. She could not hope to gauge how well she’d done, for lacking a looking glass, it was nigh impossible to read the lines with her own eyes. There was no smile for her there, but his face did not lack warmth. Searching for something to cling to, Lyanna dared to bring her hand upon his. The fingers stilled their movement, skin-warmed metal pressing into her palm as his own remained upturned. She wanted to pluck the ring away and deposit it somewhere out of the way. How could they hold hands properly otherwise? But that would be too much.

He curled his fingers around her hand but the grip was lax. It was not truly a pressure, though she knew not what to call it but pressure. It felt nice. There was a dim sound coming from somewhere far off, as though humans moved within another land altogether, leaving the two of them in a world all of their own. But they were not truly alone. They could not be. Lyanna ventured an encouraging smile.

“She was with child; did you know that?” She hadn’t. Lyanna shook her head. “She told me she wanted to go to Sunspear and stay, at least until the babe would be ready for travel. And I was glad for it. Glad to have her gone. I thought that I might spend my time with you during her absence.” He let go and the ring fell to the floor. Both of them watched it land upon the flagstones and skitter beneath the pew.

“You could not have stopped it. Some things we have no control over.” In truth, she felt the cut of his words deeper than she wished to admit to. The pain was not crippling, but there was a numbing quality to it. Children with no mothers to comfort them in the dark. Bile rose in her throat. “King or peasant, it is useless to oppose death. You cannot stall it by plea or bargain. You can only accept it.” She closed her eyes against the tears. The prickly sensation did not ease. It grew in intensity, stinging. She breathed through her nose in one last attempt to hide the turbulent emotions. To no avail. She was not the greatest mummer to have ever lived.

“I could have done a lot more than I did,” he argued back softly, voice barely above a whisper. There was neither heat, nor passion behind the words; resignation tainted the meaning, twisting it uncomfortable. He was determined to shoulder the blame. “For that child, I should have insisted that she remain in King’s Landing. ‘Tis as though I have taken its life myself.”

What could she possibly say to that but a repeat of her earlier words? “You might not have been able to save them either way.” Her whole frame was shaking lightly now, voice thick with unshed tears.

“I would have had the peace of consciousness that I’d made an attempt. One of her ladies-in-waiting caught some sort of ague. I just recalled that. Might be had I sent Pycelle with them. Would that I had thought of it.” One of his hands came up to wipe over his face.

“Recriminations can do naught for her now; she is gone. And she would not wish you to suffer thus for it.” At least if she were to go she would not wish anyone to fret thus over her bones. She’d not know it at any rate, having passed to the path of the righteous, or not. Her lungs filled with chilled air at the shake of his head. “If this is about your disagreement with her, then you must know the dead do not hold grudges.”

“Disagreement. That is an elegant way if putting it.” Fingers combed through his hair. “How very optimistic you are. The dead do not hold grudges. One day I shall die and I might have to face her in whatever world follows this one. How can I look in her eyes? Mayhap I shan’t even face her.”

She understood without explanation what he was getting at. Her blood hissed to a boil, flooding her face into a vivid blush. “Don’t speak like that. Not to me. I will not allow anyone to make even the slightest suggestion, you should know, least of all yourself!” It was without her accord that her voice rose so high. But she could not bring it lower even trying. “We are none of us without fault but you are a good man.”

“At times I wonder why the gods have given me you. It seems too good to be true.” His hand returned to hers, comfortingly, But Lyanna wanted assurance that she had won, not comfort. That, he was not willing to give though. “You are much too trusting.”

“Nay. There I bad men in this world. I know that. The gods forgive me but one sat the throne and burnt people at will. There are bad men in all manners of places. You are not one of them.” Something flickered in his eyes, a cruel glint. Lyanna could feel the blood draining from her face, drop by drop. He thought to destroy her illusions. Her hopes, might be. But just as quick as she’d noticed it, it was gone, leaving behind doubt.

“I wish that were true. I wish I were the man you think I am.” She bit her lip, keeping her gaze on him, refusing to back down. A thin silence stretched between them, ice-like, waiting to be broken. He would not do so, she could see, and she hesitated for a few moments as well, allowing it to stretch.

“Then tell me. Whatever you are afraid of, tell me and I will show you there is naught to fear.” Or very little and very excusable. Where there was a will there was a way. After all, there was not one man without a single regret, or a sin to bear. He was merely being harsh upon himself.  That she might take care of with a few well-chosen words. “Go on, tell me.”

She allowed him his time, in the meanwhile searching for the ring he had allowed to drop. Se found it after a short hunt. Her fingers wrapped about the metal which had grown cold and lifted it. The adornment rested in the palm of her hand. She had been right, it was small.

“Now that you’ve asked me to put it all into words, I wish you hadn’t.” As though he was amused a small chuckled escaped his lips. Lyanna was not discouraged though. She gave him an expectant look, leaned back against the wood and grimaced. It was hard and she’d grown weary of it.

“Just tell me,” she insisted. “You offered and I have decided to take you up on it. Trust me.” The ring was returned to his palm. He replaced it on his little finger. He turned it round and round, as though he could not bear to keep still.

And then he opened his mouth to speak.           

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The time had mellowed enough allowing for an outing. Rhaenys had been excited at the prospect of leaving the nursery and their stern septa for a few hours, thus when the opportunity presented itself, she was more than happy to drag Aegon and Jon along. “What do I care for a pool of water,” her brother had snapped at the persistence she plied him with. “Dragons have no need of water.”

“Dragons might not,” she allowed in a like tone of voice, “but little boys do. Else I shall think you craven. Afraid of a little water, brother dearest?” Teasing him, it was almost as though naught had changed. If she closed her eyes, she could see mother smiling from her recline in bed, lips curling ever so gently. She only wished they were going with mother and she was telling them stories of her girlhood. It must have been so very exciting to live close to the Water Gardens. She might have even told them the tale of Daenerys Martell. Father had once told it to her, but Aegon hadn’t heard it yet. A tendril of guilt brushed against her heart. Aegon might have been happier to hear about the battle, but she was perfectly to listen as father ended the tale with a Daenerys well into her age, smiling at her children playing in the pools, resting her head on her husband’s shoulder.

“I am not craven,” Aegon insisted, breaking away from her hold. “’Tis just a stupid idea. Does it look to you as though we might bathe in this weather?” He had a point. A very shallow one. They needn’t bathe, Rhaenys had argued in turn. They could just as easily admire what the gardens have to offer. Learn their way around for the next time they happened by and find the best hiding spots.

“Think about it,” she’d insisted. “We could be unbeatable. You, Jon and I. This is perfect.” Only that they were not going alone. Though the children of bother her uncles were older, they too would join. “I will ask Arianne for every little detail. You and Jon can work on Quentyn.” What she had learned during her stay was that Quent was likely to get on better with the boys, on account of having a slightly overbearing sister. “Tell me you do not wish to do this.” Her brother muttered aught in answer. “Aegon!”

“Fine,” he managed, clearly none too pleased.  

Jon was much easier to convince. He gazed at her in wonder, asked what the Water Gardens were and listened patiently as she explained. For some odd reason, the Seven had not seen fit to give her him as a brother. Instead, she was stuck with Aegon and his moods. She would take it up with the Mother the next she was at prayer. She would ask that her little brother grew up to be just like Jon. That would show Aegon. The triumphant thought was neatly discarded as their departure became a reality.         

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Rhaenys, she has no idea. :3
> 
> Clue: ]45; -5* 28 5))8(;8† ]6;4‡?; 8¶6†8*-8 -5* 28 †6)96))8† ]6;4‡?; 8¶6†8*-8. Try figuring this one out. 
> 
> The title of this almost was 'people are retarded'. I'm off now...


	31. Fear Itself

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lyanna woke with a start, the chill in her bones biting to a point where the pain made her grasp. “Good gods,” she murmured, looking into the placid face of Tilly. The servant woman was holding the babe, rocking her back and forth, though she need not have, for the wheelhouse swayed all on its own. “Tilly, have we stopped at all?”

“Not at all, m’lady,” she said, giving her a curious look. “There is naught to worry over. The roads safe, the weather holds. There has been not as much as a flake of snow.” Even as the girl spoke the movements seemed to grow leaner and leaner. She breathed in slowly before shifting against the pillows. “Might be it was all a bad dream. Best not to pay it mind.”

“I am certain that was the case,” she agreed after brief consideration. Only a dream. Wretched things, night terrors. Thanked be the gods she was not often afflicted. “Is Alys sleeping?”

“Nay, m’lady.” Tilly held the child out, allowing Lyanna to see the babe’s eyes were opened and she was inspecting the roof of the wheelhouse with more interest than she’d thought little children capable of showing. “She woke up some hours past and has been quiet since.”

“Might be she’d wish for some feeding about now.” Lyanna unfastened her cloak and opened her dress. Thankfully, those laces had been placed upon the front. Then she opened her arms and Alys was given in her care. The babe latched onto the offered food source and began feeding. “And our other babe?”

“Sleeps like the dead,” Tilly entrusted. “M’lady, can we not at least have him placed without the wheelhouse. What if it wakes and eats us all?” The girl bit her lower lip and forced her gaze onto the small iron cage holding the dragonling.

“He won’t do anything of the kind.” There was no assurance for it, expect that Rhaegar had told her specifically how to feed the creature and he had been given a hearty meal before their departure. “Calm yourself, Tilly; there is no need for dramatics.” She offered a smile as though it might brush away all of the other’s worries. Darys had not shown signs of hiding some deeper, darker desire to feast upon them and she suspected as long as he was fed, a few days on the road would not, in fact, result in death and destruction.

Besides, her own brother had been tasked with brining the reptilian creature back to King’s Landing. And Lyanna mean to help Benjen along that path, whether Darys liked it or not. For that to happen though, they’d discovered it was imperative for Alys to be close by. Thus she had to let go of her previous intentions. Catelyn had been written to, albeit in some hurry, and her brother had as well received a few lines of assurance.

“I still don’t trust it. Those claws are plenty dangerous.” That Lyanna never made a reply to. She merely nodded her head and eyed Darys as well. He’d managed to turn in his back, tail sliding through the bars moving every once in a while. How innocent he looked slumbering like that. It was difficult to believe he had an affinity for terrorising servants and eating them once the fun was over.

But then he was a dragon and there was truly no accounting for the proclivities of winged reptiles come from possibly ancient eggs somehow hatched by the use magic. “Poor Tilly. Do not think upon it too much. ‘Tis not good to make yourself sick with worry.”

Alys’ hand pressed against her, distracting her from the trouble with dragons and their tendencies. “What is it, my love? Are you wondering at the absence of your companion?” Her daughter did not reply, not in any manner Lyanna would be able to understand.

The wheelhouse slowed. “Tilly, I do believe my brother is trying to get my attention.” The perks of being an older sister included knowing that when someone knocked against the latticed window it probably was one’s brother attempting to tell her aught. Tilly hurriedly removed the lattice and revealed Benjen’s face.

“Hard at work, I see,” he said, an easy air about him. “I was wondering if you wanted to ride for a bit.”

“I should love that. As soon as Alys is done with her meal.” Which Alys did with alacrity, as if she understood perfectly well what was going on. Lyanna returned the babe to Tilly careful hold and wrapped herself back in her dress and cloak. “If aught should disturb her, be certain to let me know.” After all, horse rides, pleasant as they were, held no appeal in the face of her children’s discomfort.

Benjen helped her out of the slow moving wheelhouse, hoisting her up. His gelding, a placid thing, meant for long roads and uncomplaining adoration, was brought to a halt. He dismounted, leaving her to adjust herself in the saddle and then, in a spectacular show of insanity, ran towards the still opened door of the wheelhouse and leaped in. Lyanna watched as he went through the motions, wondering if one day he would break his neck. It was a distinctive possibility. She shook her head and pursed her lips. Benjen merely shrugged when he noticed her displeasure and shut the door.

Lyanna dug her heels into the sides of the gelding and sent him into a gallop. The beast’s muscles flexed beneath her. Allowing her head to fall back for a brief moment, she breathed in the fresh air. The breeze tugged upon her tresses, lifting them from her shoulders to fly as a banner behind her as she flew through the throng of soldiery put in charge of protecting them. They paid little mind to her beyond assuring themselves she was not in mortal danger. Granted, on a horse she could outrun any sort of danger. Their murmurs were a pleasant reminder she was not at all alone. One glance over her shoulder reaffirmed the knowledge.      

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Despite having been born fairly close to the sea, one might say so close that one was never quite able to escape the salty scent brought upon the breeze, Jon had never truly learned how to swim. To be entirely fair, his mother had attempted to teach him, but he had not been interested. Renly had dared him to do more than float a few times and Jon had managed, thankfully, not to drown in a heap of human weight sinking to the bottom of the sea. Yet he had never learned to be a strong swimmer. And he’d not begrudged Renly besting him in their friendly competitions. He was older, and more experiences. And he’d had fun. Which was possibly the most important part of it all.

The Water Gardens, to him at least, played upon that sense of playful competition he’d been so enamoured of. Thus when Rhaenys had excitedly chattered away about the pools and games, all stories heard from her mother possibly, he had gone along with it. And he found the experience exciting as well. He smiled from the moment their feet landed upon the pink tiles until they were led to a serviceable set of chambers which were to be their bedchambers for the duration of their stay. Separate rooms, which had left him cold for a moment, fingers flexing against the emptiness. But there was always the promise of the morrow and the thought of strategizing towards the goal of victory.

Likely as not, Jon would not be returning to the Water Gardens. He knew better than to believe himself welcomed. It might be a strange thing to think, yet his heart warned against attachment to anything solid in these strange lands. That filled him with a sense of discomfort. What had he done to merit dark looks. And ‘twas not just from the Dornish Prince with whom he and the King’s children had come along.

There were a couple of girls in Sunspear, Obara and Nymeria, the last named for the famed Queen who’d won her kingdom through battle. The latter was the oldest. She was a tall girl, with thick rat-brown hair and an equally thick shape which lend itself very well to the wielding of weapons. That he knew she did for he’d seen her with a spear once in the courtyard. The other was only slightly younger, not quite as tall, but equally dangerous. She carried about a pair of knives. She had threatened one of the servants in his presence. Jon did not like either very much, for they were cold, brash things, to him, that was. Aegon and Rhaenys were exempt from whatever it was that animated their dislike of him.

Still, beyond dark looks from lightly slanted eyes, viper eyes, he’d heard them called, they never harmed him. And their attention was not quite as intense in the presence of the Prince and Princess. Possibly because Jon paid them no mind. They’d come to the Gardens as well, ostensibly to be close to their father.

He was a stranger to them and they to him. It was not aught he would be able to change, he felt. For some odd reason, his mind warned him away as well, advising that he cling to the comforting protection of Rhaenys who would often take him by the hand and smile down at him. She was taller by at least a head. “We shall have such fun,” she told him, the grin stretching further. “Don’t tell my brother, though, but I mean to defeat him in our first battle. Such a sour face deserves a taste of true sourness, don’t you think?” Still holding his hand, she had pulled him along, her other hand holding onto Aegon and chiding him in low tones.

The septa in whose care they’d been place was a dark-skinned slip of a girl. She could not have been much older than Obara Sand. But she was as different from that one as the sun was from the moon. Septa Malden; that was what she was called, but according to her, they were to use her true name, Mair. Rhaenys had shrugged and accepted the pronouncement with a nod and Aegon had promptly ignored the young woman, leaving Jon to scuttle after him towards a pile of carved soldiers. Before taking her vows she’d been the natural daughter of some lordling or a knight. She had uneven teeth with one of them being golden, and with her smiling a lot, the defect was exposed most times. If she was bothered by it, she never showed it. Other than that, her sweet disposition rendered her an entertaining carer and her unguarded speech was cause for much amusement. He’d even learned a few expressions which would not gladden his mother.

All in all, the highlight of his stay in Dorne remained Rhaenys and to some extent the septa who observed their various rambunctious shenanigans with an approving smile and the occasional tilt of her head to indicate she would keep silent when their actions resulted in some minor problem being born. In comparison to the previously orderly existence under whose dictates he’d spent his time, the chance was welcomed. He embraced even the peril of being on the receiving end of a glare from one of the Dornish Prince’s daughters.

All of which left Jon, on his first night in the Water Gardens, all alone in his bedchamber, huddled beneath furs, trying to fall asleep by drawing on the vague warmth of the joy he took in his companions and the adventure awaiting. It was not aught he managed as well as he’d hoped, for the darkness was a bit too dark and the soft scraped against the floors were a bit too loud. The lack of familiarity made him ever more reluctant to leave the bed and search the darkness for the cause of the noise. Not that he wished to venture out of the comforting embrace of warmth.

Darkness remained, even after he’d been submerged in it, a space of fright. He half expected that a thin arm would grab at him from the depths yawning blackness. Which was a silly thought. There was no true danger between these walls. He sighed to himself, eyes scrutinizing the length of the chamber. He could make it out faintly even without the aid of moonlight. The tapping came once more, louder than before. Closer? Jon closed his eyes against the disturbance. The sounds did not disappear. Thus he was forced to open them and move about. Might be if he did not face the door he would be able to ignore it better.

Jon tossed about until his back was to the entrance and he pulled the furs over his head. The air around him grew hot as opposed to the pleasant warmth from before. He forced himself to breath in, expelling the air loudly. It covered, just for a moment, the scratches from without. But soon enough they troubled him again and no amount of breathing could aid. He dragged the furs away and turned towards the door, eyes narrowing into a glare. He willed whoever was on the other side away.

To no avail. Even more, a knock came. It was a low, slow series of taps, spaced out. The sequence repeated a few times before the door was pushed open. There was no sound and a small head poked its way in. “Jon, are you sleeping?” He recognised the voice. “I’m coming in.”

Released from the grip of terror, he stumbled out of bed and ran to Rhaenys. ”Is aught amiss?” he questioned as softly as she had spoken before. But her voice had not indicated such, in fact, it had been rather energetic, despite its quietness.

“Not at all. We are going to the pools,” she informed him, tugging at his wrist. “Aegon and I and Arianne and Quentyn. Come along. We are going to explore the largest one.” That one they hadn’t been allowed near. It had frosted over and had not yet thawed enough.

“Isn’t it dangerous though?” Jon forced the words out even as he allowed himself to be dragged in her wake. He pulled the door closed, putting on the shoes he’d left at the door. “They said we are not allowed to go there.”

“There’s naught dangerous about it,” the Princess laughed, her voice carrying over the darkness. “Come then. We are being waited upon.” And indeed they were. Aegon waved them over and asked something of his sister which he could not catch.

Jon looked from Quentyn to Arianne. He’d never paid them much mind, preferring to keep to Rhaenys and Aegon. They’d done the same and they continued to do it. He was glad for that. The stood close to one another, their features more similar in the dim light than in the bright light of sun. How very strange. Jon gazed away from the two, joining the excitement of his own people.

Together, the five of them made their way through the corridors, chatting quietly about matters of little import. Aegon was arguing back and forth with the Dornish Princess, keeping his voice meticulously low. There was, after all, no need to alert anyone to their presence. The gods only knew what they would suffer through if they were caught. Jon had little desire for ringing ears. He did not allow his thoughts to lead his down stray paths. It would be best not to tempt fate which such incursions into matters best left alone.       

“If you do that, you won’t be able to protect your fort,” The Prince argued, his voice somewhat thick with annoyance. “’Tis best you do so, though. As I plan to win.”

“Aegon the Conqueror is long gone,” Arianne snapped, her palm slapping against Aegon’s shoulder. “You had best recall though that not even your precious Aegon managed to take Dorne. And it would not matter if a thousand such Aegons came upon us. You would still not win.”

“Arianne,” her own brother’s voice broke though the dark. “You needn’t be so forceful about it.” But his advice was met with laughter from the sister. Jon was not certain what she did after, but he suspected she’d elbowed the boy. He let out a strained sound.

“Just be glad, Your Grace,” the Dornishgirl mocked, “that none of my companions could come. We would have flattened you to the ground.” Jon rolled his eyes at that despite knowing no one would see. He did hear Rhaenys chuckle. “Laugh all you wish.”

“And so I shall,” Rhaenys told her, not at all cowed by the older girl. “You underestimate us. But never you mind, Your Grace,” she paid the girl in the same coin, “you shall learn the error of your ways. And that is a solemn promise.”

“A solemn promise which you shall never have the joy of fulfilling,” Arianne insisted. Her lack of faith amused him somewhat. “Just you wait.”

“There truly is no need for bickering,” Quentyn inserted himself back into their conversation. “What does it matter who wins?” He was the sort to whom such victories did not matter, but for all that Jon found him pleasant enough.

“It matters if your sister is a shrew,” Aegon told him. Jon swallowed his own amusement and turned his gaze away, looking at the moonlit bodies of water. The thin veneer of ice glowed with an ethereal light. The silver dusted the expanse of water bodies. Jon wondered just how much he ought to worry at the sight of that ice. He supposed that as long as they kept away from it, no harm could possibly reach them. Alas, would they keep away from it?

“Look, that is the one,” Rhaenys pointed out the greatest of the pools. “How big it is.” Her awe prompted a snort from her brother. Clearly he was not impressed, the Prince walked past her, adding that they should hurry along unless they wanted sunrise to catch them at it.

Thus decided, they made for the big pool. Jon observed at once that the ice was intact upon the surface. There was not even a crack to be seen. He exchanged a look with Rhaenys and she approached the edge, kneeling by it. Her hand reached out towards the ice, as though to test its durability. He supposed she was pressing it with some force. “Is it a difficult swim?”

“Not overly,” Quentyn answered. He joined her, adding his own hand to the surface. “If you really try, it can be achieved fairly quickly.” He thought he heard a smile in that voice. Jon, seeing little else to do, joined them as well.

He still did not trust that it would hold any weight beyond that of their hands, but before he could make his worries known Aegon had launched himself into a foolish adventure he could not countenance. Jon cried out as the rush of air hit him and the blurry form of the Prince ventured onto the ice. Aegon waved his hand at them from a few paces beyond the edge.

“You lot are all cravens. I thought you wanted to explore.” And so they had. But not at the expense of their own lives. Jon offered a quiet protest which was lost under Arianne’s shrill cry that they were no cravens. She promptly followed Aegon.  

With the milk already spilled, he staggered to his feet and stepped onto the ice as well. Rhaenys and Quentyn did not follow. He stepped towards Aegon and grabbed him by the arm. “’Tis not the time to play about,” he said, trying to pull the other boy away from danger.

“You stay out of this,” Arianne hissed, her own hand gripping his shoulder, nails sinking into his skin. Jon jumped back with a yelp and Aegon rewarded her efforts with a curse to which she promptly replied. “If you want to hide behind this runt, go ahead.”

It was not going to end well. The thought gave Jon pause. He should return to solid ground and stay out of danger. Alas, that was not what he did. When Arianne moved to push against Aegon, he attempted to get between them. However, the Prince was ready and Jon’s interference only saw him sent to his knees. The ice groaned beneath his weight and his heart did the same before it came to a halt. Another sound followed, this one a thin crackling as though precious spun glass had hit the floors and was slowly coming apart from within. He dared to look up. A thick line ran along the surface. He knew, before anyone spoke, what had happened.

“Jon,” Aegon called his name. He must have taken a step because the ice cracked even further.

“Nay, come back right now,” Rhaenys screeched, fear colouring the words from inside out. “Slowly.” He never heard the rest of it. His heart galloped, its pounding filling his ears.

He wanted to move, but his limbs were frozen in place, heavy as though stone had pressed within his veins. Jon gulped. He breathed in through his nose. It did naught to calm him, but he did manage to shift a smidgeon. Which reminded Jon that, nay, humans could not become stone and that he could, in fact, move. He just had to do it slowly. Aught, a voice buried beneath the weight of his worries, warned that his progress should be slow. He was barely aware of the commotion behind him as he manoeuvred his body around until he was facing the others.

The Dornish Princess was missing and Rhaenys spoke to him. “Hold on a little longer,” she said, “we’re getting help.” The promise was rewarded with a jerky nod from him. He was much too far for any of them to reach him and anyone stepping upon the ice would likely send the both of them into the freezing water. 

“Hurry,” he managed after a few moments of paralysed silence, “I know not how long this will hold.” He, however, was willing to hold on for the next century or so. If only someone would come and make certain he did not end up dead at the bottom of a pool. He’d been promised aught about grand destinies, thus Jon hoped the gods took pity on him.     

“Just don’t move,” came the voice of the third boy. The advice was not particularly helpful. Jon refrained from spearing him with a glare. ‘Twas not his fault. Ill-fated outing; he should have realised that his misgivings were a warning. If he could just crawl the few steps towards the edge. He could possible grab that and haul himself out, or have Rhaenys and the Dornish Prince pull him out.

Further cracks appeared in the surface. How long could it possibly take to find someone capable of solving their problem? Somewhere further afield a couple of figures were outlines by a dim glow. From what he could make out, the two were tall. Relief wound itself around his heart, for the moment chasing his worries. That was, until he saw just who was coming.

Obara and Nymeria. Out of all the people one could have picked for the task, those two were the very last he would have chosen. Rhaeyns must have agreed for as soon as they were within earshot she started chiding Arianne. “I meant you were supposed to tell someone who could help Jon.”

Alas, there was no more time to argue or even to be entertained by the bickering for the thin sheet beneath him began crumbling despite him not have provoked it. Obara did lunge for him and he tried to catch onto her arm, but she’d miscalculated the distance and all they manage to do was briefly touch. Not enough for her or for him to grab onto one another.

Thus Jon sank with a scream.

He was hit from the very first by a blast of cold. Jon struggled against it, however, the icy shackles gripped him tightly, stopping any movement on his part, dragging him down. The shock had him immobile for a few moments longer until aught poked against him. Jon tried to grip what seemed to him a slim piece of wood. As soon as he managed to lift his hand though, it occurred to him he’d forgotten the most important bit of advice he’d ever heard about being underwater, specifically that he was not to breathe when submerged. And he’d been doing just that. Or rather all the air from his lungs had been exhausted in a bid to keep himself alive.

 

     

  

 

 

            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, proving her cognitive capabilities are of impeccable quality, Arianne helps. I would say the game has been thrown, but to be honest I'm too busy being a douchebag and trying to kill little boys. Because remember guys, trauma has consequences...which I'm sure you are mildly informed about. And yes, this is a HINT. Also, this is foreshadowing. 
> 
> Clue: Bvh, blf wrw qfhg dzhgv blfi grnv. 
> 
> N.B. This does happen after a time-skip.


	32. Pulse Tief

 

 

 

 

 

 

Even beneath a thin silvery light, the water seemed murky, deep, vile and merciless. Her first reaction had been to cover her face, obstructing her own vision against the evidence. Obara was stabbing the stick beneath the surface, trying presumably to find the boy, but from the huffing and puffing she was doing, there was little fortune she found in her activity. Before long her inability to ignore the trouble she in part had caused, Rhaenys removed her hands and peered into the liquid darkness. Small ripples danced cross, indicating movement. When one breathed underwater, bubbles rose. She could see them.

“Found something,” Obara muttered to her sister. The older girl moved into position, kneeling by the edge, plunging her hands into the chilly water. “It’s caught.” Jon or her stupid stick? Rhaenys scowled at the lack of clarity. “I lost him.”

“Go in after him,” she insisted. Had she asked that before? She couldn’t recall. “You cannot leave him there.” But her voice carried little weight. No one turned to gaze at her, no one acknowledge her raised voice. “You have to go in!”

“Hush,” Nymeria snapped, her dark eyes flickering to her dismissively. “She’s doing what she can, but going in won’t help unless we know where he is.” Momentarily stunned by the ferocity lingering in those words, Rhaenys stared at the sisters with wide eyes and an oval for a mouth. Her lips slowly flattened, the gap she’d created closing against the cool night air. Eyes returning to the rippling dark surface, she tried to gauge the distance from the edge to where she’d last seen Jon. There was no adjusting for the darkness though. Try as she might, she would never be able to accurately pinpoint where the boy had moved.

But their attempts were not successful either. Obara could try fishing Jon out until sunrise and she would never manage it. Rhaenys looked to her brother, but Aegon shook his head at her and in the dim light, she thought she saw despair on his face. “I cannot just stand here.” Her brother’s gaze snapped to hers. “I will get the septa. She might know what to do.” For a brief moment she thought he might protest, but then he settled into a nod.

“Go quick then, before they catch on to your plan.” It was clear to her that he too was at a loss as to what one was supposed to do in such circumstances. Would that she’d never listened to Arianne. She might have been in her bed, and Jon in his, and no one injured.

“You’d best be off before my sister catches on,” Quentyn intervened. “If she asks, I can buy you some time, but you have to go now.”

Bewildered at his willingness to help, Rhaenys gave one single glance to the Dornish Princess who was watching the other two girls with anxious interest. And best she did, she’d been the one to suggest they go out to the pools.

The flattened roads beneath her feet were smooth, thus there was no danger of her foot catching onto anything and her stumbling. Yet Rhaenys remained shy of breaking into a run. For multiple reasons. Should Arianne look to her, she might attempt to put an end to the scheme. Should she still fall and cry out then the result would be the same. Thus her legs began moving in a slow rhythm, carrying her a short distance away. Rhaenys glanced over her shoulder all the way to the third pool before she gathered enough courage to move her eyes to the small keep looming ahead. And the more she looked the faster she moved, legs pumping with vigour. At long last, Rhaenys was startled to realise she was running.

If Arianne caught sight of her, called or attempted to stop her, she would never know. The distance between her and the keep diminished, fading as she advanced. And she hadn’t even tripped once to her relief.  The road remained solid beneath her feet and her heart, have begun to beat fast and faster yet, slowed to a manageable speed. She was very close to finding aid. Hope swelled within her chest.         

Why hadn’t she taken Jon’s warnings seriously? Because it was improbable that aught might happen to her and those dear to her? Because she’d been hoping naught would happen? Nay; that was not it. None of it was the explanation she was looking for. And yet she had been confident that no ill would befall any of them. Her lungs protested at the lack of air and she was forced to momentarily halt her progress. Rhaenys dragged in a mouthful of fresh air and gazed just once over her shoulder, eyes pinning the figures by the pool in place. No one moved, thus she was confident enough to return to her own search.

If only she’d thought to call the septa with them from the first. Septa Mair was not the sort to bar them from any activity which would bring them pleasure, but even so she was able to steer them away from trouble. For the most part. None of them had suffered injuries caused by her neglect. And she was certain she might have defused the argument between Aegon and Arianne. Rhaenys might have hit herself for the oversight. She should have ignored Arianne’s complaining and ordered her silent. That would have helped.

Her feet were finally upon square flagstones. Out of habit her eyes darted to them, counting the expanse separating her from the septa’s bedchamber. She knew the way and did not fear getting lost and should never have done so anyway when so much was at stake. Rhaenys hurried across the flagstones until she reached the door. Without a second thought her fists began pounding upon the thick carved wood. She kept up a steady rhythm, willing the woman to wake and open the door. She was keeping herself quiet so she might explain her presence when came the time.

Her exertion was not without result. From beyond the door, the sounds of movement reached her ears, It started out as faint rustles, as though furs and covers were pushed aside, dragged against sheets and a wooden frame. It was not difficult to hear the break of the wood either, signalling a body was moving, turning on the side, mind foggy with sleep, eyes narrowed. Then came the sound of footfalls. Rhaenys could not mistake that. She closed her eyes, listening to the septa’s progress. Her lips opened in a struggle to keep her silence. It was not a complete success for she made a thin sound in the back of her throat, a whine.

And then the door opened. Standing in the doorway was the septa. She was not particularly tall and the loose cut of her chemise made her seem twice the girth she usually was. Tousled hair fell over her shoulder in a slack tail, tendrils curling about her shoulder. “Your Grace, what is this racket?” she asked in a flat voice, though Rhaenys ascribed that to her bring woken from deep sleep rather than annoyance at her appearance.

For a brief moment her voice refused to work, as though her throat was clogged. Her lungs filled with air as anticipation swelled between the two of them. One eyebrow rose in question, the septa went down on one knee. “Did you have a night terror?” Her hands came to cup her face and stroked gently against her cheeks in a motherly manner. “There now. There is naught to be afraid of.” She continued to soothe her. “You look a little pale.”

As soon as those words were out of her mouth, Rhaenys snapped to attention, her mind cleared and she parted her lips decisively. “’Tis no night mare, except that it is a sort of night terror.” That must have made as little sense to the septa as it made to Rhaenys upon further consideration. She struggled with her words, trying to put it as plainly as possible. “We were by the pool,” she explained, waving her hands to hold the woman’s attention, ”we never wanted it to happen, but it did. The ice broke.”

It took a single heartbeat for understanding to dawn upon the septa. “Someone fell in.” It was no question, nevertheless she nodded. “We’ve no time to waste.” And they did not. Rhaenys nodded even harder and took the septa’s hand as she climbed to her feet, the soft soles of her shoes making faint noises against the floors.  “Who fell in?” the inevitable question came. The rush of air coming from her lips momentarily stopped her from revealing Jon’s predicament.

“It’s Jon. He fell in. The ice boke beneath him. Because he fell.” Her explanation received a grasp and before Rhaenys could find the wherewithal to speak again a very familiar voice came from the end of the hall and she was very near to falling with relief once she finally understood fortune had not abandoned her. “Father!”

Within a few long steps he was before her, grasping her gently by the shoulders, an encouraging touch. She did notice the looks he exchanged with the septa. “What did you say about Jon?” he asked, as though he’d not manage to catch everything she’d said before.

“He fell in the great pool.” For some reason it was much easier telling him that. “Obara and Nymeria tried to get him out, but they can’t find him.” She wasn’t exactly certain what she saw in her father’s face in that moment, but she sensed a chill in the air, a cold that was not brought on by the sun’s absence, as little sense as that made.

Her father passed the torch he was holding into the woman’s grasp and without another word picked Rhaenys up in his arms. He held her against his shoulder, and she grasped the material of his garment and gave only momentary consideration to the fact he’d appeared out of nowhere. The scent of dust and horse filled her nostrils. It occurred to her that he must have arrived not very long past. And how glad she was for it.  If father was there with her then he would save Jon. If anyone could do it, it was him. Rhaenys clutched at his shoulder harder as the walls-warmed air gave way to the breeze from without and the flickering lights were lost in the dark of the night.

He did not need her to give him directions and the ground-eating strides carried them quickly over the distance. Rhaenys heard Aegon before she saw him, twisting around to catch a glimpse of the others. Her brother had begun explaining to their father and Rhaegar managed to stop him only after the first few words were out of his mouth.

“Your sister explained, son,” he said quietly. He put Rhaenys down, and her feet felt as though they might give way. They didn’t mercifully and her father was already asking questions of the eldest girls. He was not exactly showing his anger and Rhaenys supposed they couldn’t have told he was angry at all. She blinked up at her father and pursed her lips for she could see him preparing to do something. A weight settled against his shoulder. When she looked, the worried face of her brother filled her sight. His wide eyes darted away for a few moments.

“He’s going to save Jon, isn’t he?” Aegon questioned quietly, both of them looking at their father as he jumped over the pool’s edge. He hadn’t even stopped to remove any article of clothing. He had no trouble navigating through the broken ice and Rhaenys grasped when he disappeared beneath the surface.      

“He is. He’ll bring him out. You’ll see.” Aegon was as hopeful as she was thus her words must have seemed silly. She bit her lower lip. “He’ll bring Jon out.”

“He will,” her brother agreed.

“He will,” this time the agreement came from Quentyn Martell who gave her an encouraging look, though he did not reach to touch her shoulder, his hand suspended midair.  

The surface of the water was continually disturbed by the movement from beneath until it broke as two bodies rose to the surface. Her father’s face, shining with a cold gleam, came closer and closer as he approached the edge. The septa was kneeling by and as he lifted the boy she took him in her arms, oblivious to the water seeping into her chemise, more water slid down to a pool at her knees. There were no words. Just her lifting Jon, holding him against her front, arms crossed at his back, one hand in his hair.

Her father climbed out of the water without any aid. Rhaenys suspected that like all great knights from songs, he did not need aid. He’d slayed an even greater monster than the ones one hear sung of. Rhaenys hadn’t realised until that point that she’d been holding her breath. She released it in a loud gulp. But once more no one looked at her. Instead Jon was laid down upon the ground, with Obara holding the light over him as both Septa Mair and her father knelt by him.

“He’s not breathing.” Rhaegar pressed the side of his face to Jon’s chest. He must have been listening for a heartbeat, but bore he could find anything, the septa was speaking.

“I know what to do.” Her father looked up at that, suspicion shining in his gaze. “If you will allow me, Your Majesty.” He nodded, though the motion seemed uneasy. Rhaenys watched with attention as the woman followed through with the implied promise. Her father pulled back, but kept his gaze uponthe septa.

She pried the boy’s lips open and brought her face close to his. Her father did not interrupt, but she could tell just by looking he was not pleased. Rhaenys allowed herself to sit down and Aegon followed her lead as the septa’s lips touched Jon and she pinched his nostrils between her thumb and forefinger. It was as though she was breathing into his lungs. Rhaenys’ eyes opened wider even. Septa Mair lifted her face from Jon’s and her hands pressed against his chest in a series of pushes. She repeated the motions a few times before there was any result.

A cough rose from Jon’s throat, a wet, bubbly thing which ended with him flying to his side. He continued to cough as a gentle hand stroked up and down his back. Rhaenys could not hear what was being said for blood rushed in her ears, blocking out any sound from without. But for all that her chest filled with joy. Jon was alive. He hadn’t succumbed.   

Aegon’s head fell to her shoulder and something wet seeped into the fabric of her kirtle. Her brother was weeping. The realisation gave her a start and Rhaenys brought her arm around his shoulders, hoping to calm him down.       

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There were several types of anger. Each had its own characteristics, distinguishing between situations and persons. However, rarely had he come across something more potent than the black, overwhelming cloud of fury storming above his head. But he was holding Jon and should be open his mouth, certain words would come out which he could not take back after.

Thankfully, their little adventure attracted more than enough attention to forestall any suspicion on his part that there was no one watching over the children. Not that he would be leaving them any longer in the care of his good-brother. There were some things he was not willing to endure. His arms tightened around his son, whose eyes had closed as soon as they’d opened, but whose breathing was fanning against his own pulse, letting his know the boy lived. Had he been a moment late, the Seven only knew what Jon’s fate would have been.

He’d be dead. Of that much he was certain. Drowned by the foolish games of young children. He shuddered at the thought and told himself he should not take out his ire on innocent children. But they should have been watched. They should have taken care that no one was hurt in their play. Jon was trembling, his whole body shaking. The cold had chilled his limbs unbearably and his lips had been blue. It was little consolation that life had not left him, but it was the best consolation. Still, he was not unaware of the dangers which followed such an incident.

Led to a bedchamber by the small septa who’d breathed life back into Jon, Rhaegar watched as the woman moved about, pulling out fresh clothing and coverlets. He placed the child on the bed and continued to observe as the septa brought her findings to the bed as well. She stripped Jon of the garments sticking to his skin. Women had a way with children. And she certainly seemed to know children for within minutes she had Jon clothed and bundled, made warm, no doubt.   

“He should be well enough until the master comes,” the septa offered. In the low light aught glinted in her mouth. A golden tooth. Rhaegar blinked, not certain he’d seen what he thought he had. “I am not careless, Your Majesty. ‘Tis not my custom to allow harm to come to my children.”

He understood. Her instinct for self-preservation was in good order. “I do not mistrust your words.” And he was honest. But that did not change what had happened. “He was almost killed though. For that there is no excuse.” She nodded. Her understanding was in good order as well. “Find the maester, if you can. I do not expect we shall have more need of you.”    

She did hurry off, leaving him with Jon. Rhaegar waited in silence until the master arrived and the man did. He entered the bedchamber, his face white as parchment. He conducted his search with extreme care, poking and prodding. Rhaegar kept to his corner of the bedchamber, knowing better than to crowd the bedside.

“Well?” he questioned, after a little while, once the man had bundled Jon back up.

A knock on the door halted the question and a servant woman came in, bearing a tray. “Brought the soup,” she said, placing her burden upon a low stool. She was waved away after and gave no protest, but departed with nary a sound.

“The water was very cold. It seems his body is somewhat recovered but one cannot tell much beyond the fact that he’ll need aught to warm his further.” He pointed to the soup. “Your Majesty should change as well. The chill might develop into illness if allowed to linger. I shall be feeding the boy.”

Given it might take him some time to go through with the task, Rhaegar left with one last look to Jon, making for his own bedchamber. He changed in silence, trying to put order to his thoughts. While he drew a tunic over his head, he considered his options. He could possibly leave on the morrow, but he would rather make certain Jon was well. Though he supposed a wheelhouse would be much of aid in that if he did choose to travel.

Before that, however, he had a few words for the one in whose care the children had been placed. Poor Elia, she would have died a second time had she known the danger her children had been in. Lyanna, on the other hand, would have taken his head off were she around. Good then that she was not. He fastened a cloak over his shoulders, his thoughts going to Elia once more. He found it all so very queer. And there was little enough to help him figure it out.

It was apparent after a few well-placed questions that his wife had fallen prey to a vicious illness, a silent killer. But no one else had contacted it. There was just a vague memory of one of her ladies, who had coughed and twitched in his presence, but for all that naught had come of it. Elia had died though. It mattered not that suffering did not accompany her demise. Even more frightening was the fact that Aegon and Rhaenys had been left to deal with the loss on their own.    

Rhaegar opened the door and made for Rhaenys’ chamber, Aegon and his sister should be there, if they could be counted upon to listen to him. Mercifully, they were. Both of them had climbed into bed and were waiting, if not patiently, then at least quietly enough for it not to make too much of a difference. At his entrance, two pair of attentive eyes settled upon him.

Rhaenys pouted. “Are you upset with us?” Her arms were crossed over her chest.

“Why are you even asking?” Aegon snapped. “Jon very nearly–“ The words refused to come.

“I am not mad,” he interrupted his son’s struggle, sitting upon the edge of the bed. “Not at you. ‘Twas no fault of yours.” He gazed at the two. It could have just as easily been one of them. Rhaegar opened his arms to his children. Rhaenys did not hesitate, she burrowed her way into the embrace and hugged him back tightly. Aegon, though he lacked his sister’s clear relief, tentatively allowed himself to be caught as well.

“He was trying to stop Arianne and I,” the boy muttered, his voice cracking.

“It’s not your fault, Aegon,” he insisted, meaning every word.

That would teach him to leave anything into Oberyn’s care. He might have excused it had the man been under attack from an army of bereaved brothers out for his blood as repayment for the many sisters who’d found themselves seduced; and Rhaegar was fairly certain that somewhere in Essos there was such a brotherhood. But he hadn’t been and more the pity; might be he should look into that. And Doran’s daughter had instigated the ill-advised escapade.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Eric55 for the slighted brothers-suggestion. I'll consider getting any actual brothers to do actual damage. Also, Mair did do CPR. Thanks for that as well.
> 
> Anyway, no clue for this one, as I'm pretty tired. I just want to sleep a thousand years and forget this word we live in. But since I can't do that, I'll continue to enjoy my Encyclopedia Dramatica and quietly hate the world around us. That is, when I'm not trying to kill Jon. Thanks for reading.


	33. Don't Breathe

 

 

 

 

 

 

“My son is where?” Benjen swallowed the suddenly prickling fear. His sister had that look in her eyes. The one that promised pain and death. His lack of a response did not sweeten her, precisely, for she advanced upon him, hands on her hips. “Benjen. You will repeat at once what you’ve just told me.” He kept silent. “Benjen!”

“He left with Her Majesty and the other children. They were headed for Sunspear as far as I know.” Except that the Queen was no more and the gods knew what Oberyn Martell would be like as a surrogate mother. Benjen might have snickered at the thought. As matters stood though, he hid his amusement behind a neutral mask. “He is in the company of the other children though. Surely, no ill would befall him.”

His sister stopped. She leaned back slightly and regarded him with a cool, calculating expression. Being unable to decipher whether she meant to kill him on the spot and dump his corpse somewhere or if she was merely contemplating gouging Rhaegar’s eyes out, he continued to mind the rhythm of his heart. “Lya?” The tentative attempt seemed not to elicit any response for a few moments.

“Do not call me Lya,” came the belated reply, though it occurred to him she might be struggling to rein her temper in. “You let him send my son off to Dorne? With Elia Martell? Benjen, is it possible that you have somehow forgotten about three years of your own life?”

“There certainly will be trouble of you keep on with that,” he muttered, dodging the kick she aimed at him. Not that Lyanna had been trying to actually catch him. She would have injured him had she meant to. “If the King allowed it, then you have to trust he knew what he was doing.”

“Rhaegar is a man.” He stared at her, understanding nowhere in sight. His sister sighed. “I should have never allowed him to remain. Rhaegar cannot be expected to keep an eye on him, but I should have known better.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it.” He sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulders. “You worry so much about him. But Lyanna, you’ve pointed it out yourself. It had been three years. Who would look into the matter and even more figure it out?”

“Gods, Benjen. Who, indeed. Might be Stannis. Do you not think he would want Storm’s End for himself?” He shook his head, but she trudged on. “It would be a disaster if anyone learned about it.”

“He’s been helping us all along. ‘Tis hard to believe that someone with such a cold stare would be so understanding, but he’s been here for Jon, for I’ve little doubt it is Jon he wants to protect. Do not judge him too harshly.” Leaning into him, Lyanna toyed with a piece of string she’d pulled from the embroidery on her skirts. “You are fortunate, dare I say, to have such a good-brother. And Jon is even more fortunate to have him for an uncle. Whatever fears you carry with regards to him, you must lay them to rest.”

“’Tis easy for you to talk. You will lose naught should the truth come to light. I know Stannis, should he have even the faintest suspicion, you can be sure he’ll sink his teeth in and not let go.” A shuddering breath spilled past her lips. The bit of string fell upon the Myrish carpet, losing itself into the bright colours. “I doubt even father might be able to help me then.”

“That is a great measure of doubt you’re carrying around.” In the candlelight her pallor gained a waxy hue, worry bleeding into illness. He did not particularly enjoy the sickly look. It was not at all in keeping with her usual gaiety, even though he knew ‘twas mostly mummery for Jon’s sake. “But father would be able to help. Even more he would wish no. Without doubt the consequences would be dire, but I reckon you are neither the first, nor will you be the last.” Since she’d chosen the path, no amount of wishing would change it. Benjen offered her a light smile. “Try to get some sleep. On the morrow you shall be facing the entirety of the Red Keep.”

“I am certain that shall help me fall asleep.” Lyanna narrowed her eyes in a glare. “You have a way with words, brother. It always surprises me. Would that have the men of the kingdom had your silver tongue.” Unimpressed, he waved his hand in her direction. “If I am to rest, I would like to do so without you here. Should you manage it, I would be grateful if you could arrange for father to come to the godswood on the morrow.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” Without much fuss, he allowed Lyanna her solitude. With some fortune come the morrow she would not be half as bloodthirsty and in a mood to entertain that might be the King would not put his own son in danger. Mothers could be genuinely frightening.

He’d managed to take a few steps down the hallway when a creaking sound filled his ears. Naturally, such an indication of movement in the middle of the night would have given rise to anyone’s suspicions. Thus he turned about and surveyed the corridor, eyes darting to the dancing shadows.

It took him a short while before he saw one of the bedchamber doors was cracked open. ‘Twas by no means obvious, for only from a certain angle could he see it. Yet were he to leave, he might well be endangering Lyanna. It was, after all, the chamber Jon had slept in during his stay in King’s Landing. He approached the door slowly, his footfalls very nearly completely silent.

With a gentle push, he lengthened the gap and squeezed his way through. Unsurprisingly, the bedchamber was dark. But not empty. He paused there, in the doorway, having just stepped over the threshold, eyes upon the figure lying abed.

There was enough silvery light coming from the lancet to halo the figure. It was the length of a child, huddled beneath a mound of furs, moving slowly beneath them. Benjen approached, fairly certain of what he would find once he peeled the coverings back.  

 

 

 

 

 

      

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The face carved in the bark stared at her with unseeing eyes. Lyanna stared back, not entirely convinced there was anything beyond the red gaze. Nana had oft told her the gods watched them through those very same eyes. She smiled at the thought. Divine intervention was scarce, might be even non-existent.

“My, my, what have we here?” She started as the question registered. And the unfamiliar voice did not help matters. Lyanna looked over her shoulder, expecting some manner of mistake had been made. Until her eyes landed upon the intruder.

“Lady Cersei,” she greeted flatly. The lioness pinned her with a smug look. “Have you lost your way?” Lyanna questioned, unable to keep her feelings from colouring the words. “The sept is some way to the right as you make your way into the main courtyard.”

A giggle left Cersei’s lips. She approached. Lyanna did not miss the fact that she was alone. There was no other soul around and the gods only knew when her father would be arriving. Once she was close enough that she might touch herby merely reaching out, Lord Lannister’s daughter moved her gaze to the tree’s face as well. “I never thought I might see a Northerner at pray.” But she did have a cutting tongue. “Tell me, Lady Rosby, do the gods ever answer you?”

It seemed so very strange to be sharing a sacred space with Cersei Lannister of all people. Even though it was unwilling. Lyanna regarded her with as much coolness as she could muster. “Enough that I never wonder if they listen or not,” she offered, not wishing to reveal any weakness. “Was there aught you needed of me?” Her presence grated, but there was nothing for it other than ridding herself of the interloper.       

“I thought you would be in Winterfell. Indeed, I was quite shocked at your swift return, my lady. And with a babe in tow.” A grin curled the woman’s lips, their rosy colour deepening. “No husband besides. There is a story there.”

“A story which does not bear repeating,” she came down firmly. Cersei’s eyes widened momentarily. Taking advantage, Lyanna launched into an explanation lest she be misconstrued, “They are painful memories, my lady. I am certain you understand they are of delicate nature.”  

The two of them remained staring at one another. Then the lioness broke the contact. “I suppose that now you consider yourself free to pursue His Majesty.” Her unexpected directness gave Lyanna pause. “Or you wish to pursue him. Do not fool yourself, Lady Rosby, you are twice widowed already and though the King might have enjoyed your company for a little while, he has no need of you now.”

“What exactly is it that you are saying?” Rhaegar not needing her; that’d be the day. She was tempted to tell her just where she was coming from and with whom she’d been spending her night, but she suspected there was a reason for which his previous whereabouts had remained unknown.

“Have you taken the chance lately to peer into a looking glass?” In keeping with the spirit of her whereabouts, Lyanna shook her head. Cersei gave a nod. “I thought you mightn’t have. You look as all new mothers look. Though not as bad as your good-sister. I daresay it shall take her quite the moon turns before she turns any heads.” The titter which followed made Lyanna smash Cersei’s head against the weirwood’s bark. That might improve her attitude. But if it failed on that account, at the very least she would have a few moon turns with no heads turned herself. “I grant you, children are necessary to keep men pleasant. Still, it does not change the truth.”

“I know not what truth you have deluded yourself into accepting, nor do I care. I do, however, take umbrage at your insulting my good-sister.” She squared her shoulder and allowed a mocking smile upon her own lips. “Coming from you, my lady, ‘tis rich indeed. You who have no husband of your own, no keep beside your father’s and no children to speak of. It must be frustrating.” A bout of laughter accompanied her insult. “You would dare speak thusly?”

“You arrogant bitch!” She quite understood why her opponent liked getting under other people’s skin. It was amusing; in a certain dark manner. “Just because he fucked you doesn’t mean he is interested in keeping you. And do not dare deny you slept with him. Everyone knows it.”  

“How very peculiar a thing to say, my lady.” Lyanna moved slightly until she stood only an inch or so away from the other. “I do not believe you know what you speak of and my advice would be to keep your mouth shut upon matters you do not understand.”

Her answer came by way of an unladylike snort. “The only one deluding herself is you. Breed as many bastards as you like; it makes no matter.” Unable to help a gasp, Lyanna attracted sharp eyes upon her own. “Have I not told you; there are no secrets between these walls. I know all there is to know about your affair. And don’t think your father will propel you to any new heights. Alicent Hightower, you are not.”

Obviously there was aught going on she knew not about. The pestilential trollop was much too confident to only be meaning a little needling. “Allow me a guess; where my father has failed, yours will succeed.” Once more she smiled disbelievingly; though this time she had to force it. The low strains of the Rains of Castamere played in her mind.

“Might be you are not as stupid as you look. Better you give up now and spare all of us the embarrassment.” A kindly look emerged upon her face, as though pity rendered her momentarily sympathetic to the plight of the defeated.

“We are all allowed our delusions,” she settled for in the end. No use furthering the confrontation before she had all her facts.

“So we are. See that yours does not create unpleasantness,” Cersei warned one last time before she took herself off. Presumably it was to admire her reflection in the looking glass. Would that she was never given cause to look away.         

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, poor Cers...  
>   
> 
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, I don't know when I'll get to update next so I sort of wanted to set the mood for the cattiness which will possibly drown KL in Rhaegar's absence. Hopefully it wasn't completely cringe-worthy. But I admit I've watched the new Ghostbusters today and some of it inevitably stuck.
> 
> Clue: Qzxp zmw Qroo dvmg fk gsv sroo Gl uvgxs z kzro lu dzgvi. Qzxp uvoo wldm zmw yilpv srh xildm, Zmw Qroo xznv gfnyormt zugvi.


	34. Coming Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I finally remembered to put up a note about this, but for the sake of convenience and in preparation for the third part of the series, here's a little series of slice of life moments concerning, well...adults and more children. If you can remember all the names, you're probably magical. :))
> 
> ####  [Between The Hill And The River](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9400601)

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Courage is not the absence of fear,” Rickard reminded his daughter. Lyanna blinked, as though to drive away confusion. “I commend your willingness to face danger and do so without showing dread. But it would help naught.”

“So we are to simply close our ears to the venom spewing from her lips and pretend all is well?” The thin ribbon she wound around her fingers paused in its coiling as her fingers retreated. Her indignation flared, staining her flesh a vibrant red. “She is a stupid cow.” He almost did not catch it.

“A bovine creature you must nonetheless suffer for it serves purpose.” Tempered by his words, the woman allowed a look of curiosity to flourish. “’Twould be a lie to pretend I know naught of what goes on, daughter. At the same time, I cannot reveal to you even the slightest of details. You see, I have already given my word.”

“I would suffer this sham gladder still were I at the very least aware of what I am struggling towards.” Her lips pursed. “Were I able to, I would pry the knowledge from you.” He chuckled softly, reaching out to path her hand in a fond gesture. “Very well, if I must then I shall reconcile myself with the fact. However, this is something I am unwilling to allow any longer.“

Though he had a fair idea of what she wished for, Rickard did not steal her chance. “If there is aught I might do, then my aid is yours.”

“As I’ve said, this time I allow myself to be led blindly on. But ‘tis the last. I expect never to be kept in the dark again.” He nodded. Apparently though the answer was not satisfactory. “Nay. Lord Father, I truly mean it. This is the last time.”

One eyebrow raised, he regarded his daughter with a good dose of disbelief. “Such vehemence. It has been a long time since I’ve seen this manner of response from you.” The last she’d been so categorical, ‘twas after she learned she’d wed Robert after the tourney. And that had turned out as it had. In fact, Rickard was not certain what the appropriate reply to such a display truly was.

“Why should it surprise you?” Her lips curled downwards, displeasure spilling over the thin line of her veneer. “You go about and make decisions for me and when the results are disastrous, I’m expected to live with them. You are doing so again. You tell me that there is a plan, yet you may not reveal a single thing. And expect that I would happily follow through.”

“The decision was not mine.” He felt compelled to go even further, “There is no excuse, other than that I wish what is best for you.” But young and stubborn ladies rarely got on well with patience and self-control. It did not give him too much of a fright to see her stand and shake her head with vigour.

“I am keeping you,” she finally said by way of excusing herself. It would be redundant to try stopping her. There was very little that could be said without endangering the balance that they had been at pains to establish.

Rickard supposed he would have done better to ask for a full detailed explanation. A danger known was a danger averted, or so he’d always thought, and it would have helped tremendously in establishing a much needed basis for true cooperation, for whatever else would follow. Alas, there was a time and place for everything and he had missed his chance. Thus he buried the notion; out of sight, out of mind.

He was not to be alone for long though. The absence of his daughter brought in a son. His youngest, to be more exact. Benjen poked his head in and inspected the premises. “The Lord Hand is kept busy with matters of the realm, I see. Might I come in?”

“Do so.” His son cleared the distance between the two of them.

“I take it my sister was not pleased with the precarious explanation she was given?” Rickard nodded. “Would it not be easier to simply tell her?”

“’Tis not my secret to tell.” Between a man and woman any insertion was a potential disaster. “In this matter, I can do no more than aid. Lyanna will, of course, find out sooner or later all the details of it; might be more even than we know. Yet for the time being, she will have to endure the ignorance.”

“I know that. And you know that. But Lyanna resents it. Were I in her place, I should as well.” A shadow crossed over the boy’s face, almost as though he was a child once more, hiding from the creatures of the night. “Did she say aught about Jon?”

“No more than she usually does.” That much was a lie. Rickard paid close attention to the way his son’s shoulders relaxed. In truth, he was finding that the subject of Jon Baratheon brought with it a hint of mystery. One he was not certain he wished to unveil. Something twisted in his stomach, coiling uncomfortably. “At times, I think I have been remiss in my duties.”

Benjen’s lips pursed. He gave little to work with. Thus Rickard pressed forth. “I cannot protect her if I do not know what dangers she faces.” What dangers his grandson faced. He’d been willing to entertain his daughter feared those who had achieved her husband’s death. But something in the way she’d asked after the boy was eminently strange. “Or is it that you do not trust me?”

“It was never a matter of trust,” Benjen finally allowed. “All I can say is that Lyanna should be the one you turn to with this question. If I may, now would be the best moment. When the danger has passed, her vigilance will no longer be as disarrayed as it is now.  That is, if you truly wish to know.”

He considered that. It was clear to him his son spoke of some great secret. The likes of which every single person in the realm had thought to uncover once or twice in their lifetime. “Still, there must be at least a little you may share with me before I ask her.”

He wavered, glancing towards the door. “That is a veritable weapon. ‘Tis hardly sporting to prey upon my devotion. As a son, I cannot refuse without giving rise to the highest manner of suspicions. As a brother, I have already given my work, and cannot break it.”

“I am not asking you to betray Lyanna’s trust. I thought that much was clear.” He made a noncommittal sound and dragged his fingers through his hair. “At times I wonder if it is aught I have done. But then I have yet to see the child whose faith in their parent is complete.” He thought of his lady wife for a brief moment, guessing that a mother’s softer touch might have elicited some other manner of response. “Very well then, I shall ask your sister. Let us have one thing clear between us though.”

“Aye, lord father?” A meek Benjen promised one of two things; whatever he discovered would lead to much turmoil. The poor boy could not help giving himself away. He heaved a sigh and drummed his fingers against the table top, wondering how long it would take for the other to speak once more. Commendable a thing as patience was, Benjen had never had much of it unless he knew his efforts would be compensated. Rickard could see the inner battle play out upon his face. With a sort of perverse pleasure he slowed the rhythm of his drumming. He decided that was to be his punishment for the blatant secrecy. “Lord father?”

“You are to keep silent upon the matter. I do not want your sister alerted to my wish.” Knowing Lyanna, she would feed him a story whose tangles’ unravelling would be akin to a goose chase. No matter how much he worried for whatever truth she hid from him; it was time to insist upon it. I will know if you warn her. And there will be consequences. I want to know that you understand this much.” Benjen nodded. “Then I have your word?” He bit into his lower lip, chewed on it thoughtfully, and then agreed wordlessly.

An empty victory if there had ever been such. “Keep your brother from following. If needs must, remind him he has a daughter to think of. And make certain he has no reason to suspect aught.” Dismissing his son with a vague gesture, Rickard climbed to his feet and had his squire called.

The boy arrived just as he put a couple of finishing lines to a letter he’d been drafting. “My lord?”

“Have my horse saddled. And find one for Lady Lyanna as well. Something docile.” The child did not even blink at the request. He truly ought to give some thought to having a true squire to work with. Someone he could trust. Poole, mayhap.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I cannot believe her daring,” Ashara said, her grimace deepening slightly. “I know not why she is in such despair. ‘Tis not as though she, of all people, has anything to lord over us.” A chuckle followed as her features brightened into a smile. “She is just bitter, I daresay.” Her tune might change if she found what Cersei had been spouting. Alas, it was not the time to reveal the depths of the lioness’ contempt.

Lyanna wanted to agree. In fact, she was poised to do just that. “Still, her attack was much too blatant. I know the act well. ‘Tis not that she is bitter. She believes she does have aught to lord over us. Which makes it all the more curious.” Had there been anything, Lyanna would have been able to tell. One did not wed a man of Robert’s considerable appetite and not retain a few useful morsels of information.  “You know, not long after I wedded Robert, we visited with his kin. It was among the few visits I ever made as his wife, and, I believe, the moment my lord husband decided it would be best to travel alone.”

“For some off reason that sounds as though it could be trouble,” the Dornishwoman remarked, arching her back repeatedly, presumably to for the stiff muscles to unknot. One of those gifts one was left with after birthing. Lyanna pressed her fingers into the rigid flesh. “Right there; I cannot believe it hurts so much.”

“I could not believe it either after Jon. Trust me though, it gets better with time.” She continued to knead in hopes of easing the other’s suffering.

“You were telling me about this visit,” Ashara encouraged.

“It was to Lord Estermont we went. His mother’s closest kin. Naturally, I’d seen some of them at the wedding, but Robert was particularly taken with a cousin of his. A pretty young woman. Lost her husband young, poor thing. Of course, my husband saw the perfect opportunity to comfort her.” Not that the cousin had resisted too much, and not that Lyanna blamed it. Likely it had been a mere distraction from the pain of having lost her own man.

“With you there?” The genuine shock gave her pause. “Forgive me. I, well, I don’t suppose there is a delicate way to put this. Lord Robert was rather notorious for his proclivities; but I should have thought he would exercise more care.”  

“’Twas the only time he was so blatant, I give you. But what I shall never forget is the way his cousin regarded me. Cersei had the very same look about her. As though I’d lost aught of great import to her. Is it indeed possible that I have?”

“Absence has a way of muddying the waters,” the other sighed. “What if I told you that you have lost aught to her?”

“The only thing that can separate a wolf for what belongs to it is death. I am not dead.”

“Just as well. Lions can put up quite the fight.”

Might be they could. But Lyanna had her own weapons to bring into the fray.   

  

  

  

         

  

 

     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About time gramps came face to face with some harsh truths. And Lyanna with a well-deserved talking-to. But that you'll get next chapter. well, that's all folks.


	35. Sanctuary

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You are awake,” a warm voice remarked, an even warmer hand pressing against his forehead, fingers held close together. He tried to widen the distance between his lids but all Jon managed was a feeble moment of clarity before his eyes snapped shut. “Do not try to move yet.”

Sage advice. Were he at least a bit inclined to follow an easy path, he might have kept still. Instead, he shifted against the bindings holding his limb in a firm clutch. A groan petered out, somehow managing to squeeze its way between his dry lips. “My lord, ‘tis most fiendish of you not to listen to well-intentioned words.” He recognised the voice. Jon struggled all the harder. “It shan’t work, aye?”

“He is not even fully awake,” someone else cut in. This voice he did not know. At a guess, some master, Jon told himself. They were never in short supply where he was concerned. And with good reason. His mind went to the maester of Storm’s End. And to think he’d given as little trouble as possible. Such wonderful days those were. “Do not jostle him. There might yet be water in his lungs.”

Water in his lungs? Confusion permeated the state of drowsiness. Why would there be water in his lungs? Jon attempted to turn once more. Miraculously, this time he managed a slight shift. “If you expose him to the cold, he shall perish,” came the warning. “You cannot o as you will.”

“Nonsense,” the same female from before answered. “He is not cold. He simply needs to move a little.” In unison with his own wish, his whole body was arranged on the side. He felt the softness of fathers beneath him shift. “Would that you didn’t stick your nose in all matters. I was tasked by His Majesty with caring for the young lord.”

“Would that you did not think yourself all-knowledgeable.” It was, by all accounts, one of the more boring confrontations Jon had witnessed in all his years. He closed himself against the sounds, retreating towards a warm point he could-half-see through the fog of lethargy. Muffled noises cropped out about every now and again, but he managed to deflect them, striving towards that point waiting juts for him. In the distance, barely reachable.

A rather fetching notion to have aught waiting just for him. He ambled forth, or rather through the emptiness. A place he’d begun to fear somewhat less than before. It had to do with that water. The one he’d submerged into. There had been something there. Waiting for him, beneath the calm surface. He could not recall what it had been, only that he’d has a taste of something.  Might be ‘twas the very same something that waited for him now.

His mind fought to recover that missing piece. The dark form in the water, solid despite lacking a body of its own. And he was so very close. It lay there, juts beyond his reach, like that point.

Another sound caught his attention, forcing his gaze into a sideways slide. The darkness was beginning to morph, oscillating between shades of black and grey, smattered with the occasional dark hues of blue. A familiar place. A familiar face as well. Standing just at the edge of this swirl was that boy. Jon stopped. It was not a mere pause. He put an end to all his progress and turned the rest of his body until he was facing the looking-glass.

The boy’s mouth opened and the thin crackling of ice poured forth. It mixed with other words whose strange familiarity was made all the queerer given he was understanding, if not the meaning, that at least the sentiment. He was being explained aught. And he felt as though he should know.  Frowning, he shook his head at the boy. “I do not understand.” Once more, he shook his head empathically, hoping to make himself understood. “Whatever it is you are telling me, I do not speak your tongue.”

His sole company frowned back. Then he sat down upon a layer of snow, glistening moonlight bouncing off his light ringlets, the similarity of their features distorted by the ripple he saw in that face. Blue eyes flickered from him towards a point far behind. The child spoke once more, making wide gestures with his hands. He lifted both arms towards the heavens and then threw them to the sides. His fingers moved in an inward curl, as though hooks were sinking into aught. The torrent of words following in the wake of it naturally had little effect other than to let him know there was an urgency to it all.

Stamping his misgiving, Jon considered the alternatives before him. He plucked up his courage and dared one brave step towards the sitting boy. When no disaster followed that show of bravery, Jon took another step and the another. The child stood and reached on hand out. He regarded the proffered limb with keen suspicion. Might be ‘twas not right of him; might be ‘twas the smart thing to do. To that he had no answer. But he did not need one either for his own limbs moved without consulting his mind and reached out for his companion.

His skin was cool. Not the sort indicated one had been sitting out too long in the snow and the cold had seeped beneath the flesh. It was coming from within. Its pull was nothing short of magnetic, as though he were watching a truly horrific spectacle but did not have the wherewithal to look away. His breath hitched as fingers grip his hand and he held back. “I still do not understand what it is you want from me.”

The crackling, a dance of icicles, replied. It was beyond him to understand what had been said. Thus he simply followed beyond the line which marked a border, into a manner of street. ‘Twas not a busy place, but he could see buildings about. They were not unlike what one might find in a town beneath a great keep.

And indeed, somewhere ahead a keep did loom. Built high upon a hill, yet flanked by walls of stone, stood the colossus, towering over the dwarfed dwellers at its feet. His companion explained to him in words he could not grasp matters which he did not understand. Jon nodded. Their surroundings were strangely devoid of life. Aye, there were buildings, and he could see that it was night, which naturally meant that most denizens slept. Yet even he knew that there were those who did not sleep. To have none about was simply unbelievable.

Before he could comment on that, he was dragged through the narrow streets, in the shadows, towards what looked to be some sort of inn. The boy beckoned him within. And that was the moment Jon realised where he was. The insides of the inn were crawling with those beings, tall and haughty, pale-faced sculptures of ice. The blood turned to ice in his veins.

Yet no one seemed to take notice of him. For some odd reason they were passing him by. A hand touched his shoulder and soft words reached his ears, as thought to let him know he was perfectly safe.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She chewed on the cinnamon stick and pulled a face at her brother. “There are times when I think you enjoy vexing me,” Cersei told him, with no small amount of resentment. “You could have simply stated you were tired.”

“And you, kind and gentle sister that you are, would have left me to my sleep.” The sheer disbelief in his voice elicited a bark of laughter from her. :”At the very least let us be honest with ourselves if naught else. So, how may I be of use?”

“You could start by not being such an utter dolt. If you stop with the act, I promise that I shall convince father to being Tyrion to court. How is that for a bargain?” She did not want to use Tyrion. The very thought brought a sour taste in her mouth. But Jaime was simply not letting up and she no longer had the vaguest idea what to do.

For the longest time it had been her brother doing his utmost best to please her. To suddenly and without warning be expected to do assume his role was not without its confusing moments. Such as this one. How could he look as though he were drowning on dry land? Cersei nearly scowled. “I thought you would be glad.”

“I am glad you offered.” The same monotone voice. It was starting to look more and more as though her brother had been replaced with a complete stranger.  “I was never truly comfortable with him being all alone at the Rock.” Something flashed in his eyes. “Why didn’t father bring him along in the first place?”

“Can you possibly expect that he might? Tyrion has always been a rebellious child.” Always running off, or rather limping away, to his books. “Seven forbid. It certainly doesn’t help matters that he’s been sour lately.” Jaime made a strange sound caught between a growl and a whine, as if her mere voice had somehow wounded him. “Methinks you know something about it, brother.” Men, forever thinking they could hide their plans. A stupid notion, but they had to be indulged every now and again.

“No more than you,” her twin hurriedly offered, shielding his face from the sun. “The change might have done him well. The court can be most entertaining.”

“If one finds folly entertaining, than I agree. ‘Tis the most entertaining place one can be in.” He gave her a look. “Oh my, have I said something wrong? You do not look pleased.”

“Don’t step on too many tails.” Jaime took her by the hand, showing her one of the adjacent paths. “And good gods, stay your tongue when you run into Lady Lyanna. Do you wish it all over the place that you would stoop to petty bickering, over matters of no import?”

“I hardly think ‘tis you that is called upon to lecture me,” she laughed, breaking his hold on her. “Need I point out that this is none of your business and she was the one who provoked me.”

“You can honestly tell me you did not engage her?” For someone who’d been extremely apathetic, her brother was proving himself to be rather knowledgeable upon the matter. “Tell me.”

“I did no more than speak to her,” Cersei insisted. “How is it my fault she cannot accept defeat?” A sigh sounded out from her side. “She insulted me. Was I supposed to nod and smile? I swear, brother, she acts as though breeding a couple of brats has elevated her towards sainthood. I’ll show her.”

“Show her what? Do you might be plan to match her child for child?” She slapped him lightly. “I know, you shall simply lord your queenly status over her.”

“I’ll do her one better.” The nonchalance in her voice was met with a sceptical glance. “You truly should have more faith in your sister. I am Cersei Lannister. Who is she to act all high and mighty? Elia was a fool for suffering her presence at court.”

“I daresay she did do grudgingly. As I recall, it was His Majesty who was most enthralled with her presence. But then, you would hardly be expected to know.” It was a form of teasing, she supposed, though the edge she heard in his words gave her pause. “Might be that should be a lesson to you, sweet sister. Some men are set in their ways.”

At that she did snort. “Are you saying the King would choose her over me? Jaime, I shall give you a few moments to recall her looks.” She waited, as she promised she would.

“Nay.” One single word. Something about the way he said it stole from her courage. “He would be a fool to do so.”

“Precisely my point.” Their eyes met and held. “What a strange fellow you are to be entertaining such thoughts in the first place. You would not pick her in his place, so why would he?”

“I love you.” The confession was shrugged off with a nod. “It does not always some down to a simple matter of beauty. Do not underestimate your enemies. It might just spell out your end. I might have told you before, and at the risk of repeating myself, his wife lost to her. It nearly drove her mad with rage. I haven’t seen such anger on her since that godsforsaken tourney with its crown of blue roses.”

“I always did wonder about that. It would have been most delightful to see the shock on her face.” But Elia Martell was the last of her concerns and Lyanna Stark was barely farther ahead. “He loves me as well, you know.” He had confessed to it in a manner. It would be ludicrous to doubt what she’d heard and felt herself. “You worry too much.”

“And you do not worry enough. Shall we leave it at that, then?” She nodded, a slight roll of the eyes.

Words crowded on the tip of her tongue. She swallowed them with a modicum of difficulty. A fight better left for another time.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	36. Thoughts On The Run

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I hardly think a slap upon the wrist is chastisement enough,” Rhaegar offered, regarding his good-brother with only the slightest trace of distaste. “It was a dangerous and foolish thing to do. It almost cost Lord Baratheon his life. Do you wish to put me at odds with the Stormlands?”

The Dornishman’s lips curled ever so slightly. “It was children playing. I admit the results were unfortunate, but to make as though it is some great tragedy when there have been no losses seemed an exaggeration on Your Majesty’s part. Begging your pardon, but all of us were young once.”

Rhaegar crossed his arms over his chest. “That is not an argument. I fail to recall leading my playmates to their potential deaths.” Though he did not doubt Oberyn might have done exactly that, wily snake that he was. “

It was however true that Doran’s daughter had done what she had with no intention to cause harm. The girl had fairly trembled when she’d been brought before them. There had been no tears by some miracle. Yet the child had remained at pains throughout their meeting, attempting to explain just how the situation had devolved. The point of contention appeared when they could not decide upon an appropriate form of punishment. A lack of intention did not mean one was not responsible.

Oberyn insisted a talking-to would do, since the girl was not likely to repeat these actions. He, on the other hand, had other concerns. In the time allotted to this visit, he had observed on more than one occasion that the Princess, for all her lack of intention, was certainly not put off as regarding moonlit shenanigans. “Correction should be immediate, lest it become a habit. She must learn that none of us may do entirely as we wish. Especially not when our betters advise against it. There is a time and place for affirming one’s independence. This is not it.”

“Your Majesty, with all due respect, Dorne views these mattes differently.” Oberyn lifted his cup, in his haste spilling some of the wine. “If Doran will see fit to give her a harsher punishment, he shall do so. I am but her uncle and would not dare impose my will upon her.”

Clenching his jaw against the mounting annoyance, Rhaegar tipped his head to the side, resting it against his bottom of his palm as his gaze settled upon the entrance. He’d already written to Doran and he was more or less certain the man would not regard the debacle passively as his brother did. But Oberyn was not trying to protect his niece as much as he was attempting to undermine his King’s authority. It was punishment that in his good-brother’s view was well-deserved.  “Very well then.” Of course the matter would not be forgotten. If anything, Rhaegar suspected these defiances would only grow in number and gravity. But that mattered little.

He reckoned Doran would quell his brother where he could. And if it became impossible, there was always the matter of suspicious death following Oberyn Martell around. All he had to do was threaten to look into those and the snake would be crawling far, far away. Upon that thought he shoved the matter away. For the moment he’d achieved relative peace. It would not do to shake the boat.

The door opened to admit the Prince’s paramour. In her wake came the septa in whose care he’d placed Jon. They both bowed. Following was the master. He looked haggard. Rhaegar merely waved him over. “What news?”

“The lord is feeling much better,” the man assured him in spite of a sharp look from the septa.

“So he has awoken?”

“I fear not.” The master cleared his throat in the wake of his words. “The fever in no more though. And he has not refused as much as a spoonful of broth. These are certain signs of recovery.”

Poor consolation. “I understand,” he sighed, trying not to allow himself to show his worry. “Then do as you have done until this point. And let me know when he has recovered.” Lord Baratheon; Rhaegar nearly winced at that. He was just a boy. Certainly, a lord by law, but good gods, he was beginning to see why Lyanna would insist upon having him watched at all times.

Some people had a natural inclination towards engaging disastrous situations. Caves and pools and the Seven only knew what would follow. And to think before his greatest worries had been Rhaenys falling and scraping her knee. A few tears here and there. Nay, this was beyond the bounds of normality. He half expected to be told one of these days that the boy had discovered an invading army at the gates.

“I still do not think there is any need to delay our journey,” Oberyn intervened, cutting off whatever his lover had been saying. “Your Majesty, the children have travelled in a wheelhouse before.” As though he cared to hear Oberyn’s thought on the matter.

“I believe I have been clear enough. I‘ve no intention of moving an inch before he awakes. You had best enjoy the reminder of your stay, Your Grace.” He saw rather than hear the gasp his words elicited. At times he wondered why he’d been cursed with such a fate. Oberyn for a good-brother was akin to a sheet of parchment for a shield in the middle of a heated battle. It was no exaggeration of his part to say anything would be better.

Oberyn had no answer to give. And better that he did not. Rhaegar had little patience for his meandering at the moment. He rose and approached the septa who had remained some distance away. “I should like a private word.”

The woman nodded her head meekly and he gestured towards the corridor. From there they made for the outside. “You are rather young to have secured a position in the household with such haste. Is there any particular reason for which that is?”

“At a guess, Your Majesty, I should think it the influence of my father,” she answered, apparently unashamed. “He was a household knight in the service of Her Grace, the current Prince’s mother. I was given the privilege of a solid education even after my father’s death and as such it was decided I should join the order of the faithful.”

“So you grew up In Sunspear?” She nodded. “Then you knew my wife?” Once more her head bobbed affirmatively, though only after a slight hesitation. “There is no need to fear me,” Rhaegar assured her. “’Tis a great service you have dine me by saving the boy’s life. Forsooth you know I have no reason to offer any form chastisement. In fact, I was wondering if it could somehow be arranged for you to join us to King’s Landing?”

“That is beyond my powers to answer.” The woman glanced away, eyeing one of the columns. “Should Your Majesty think my services beneficial then ‘tis His Grace word must be had with. I am afraid without his approval I can do little but remain as I am.”

He nodded his understanding. “I seed. Then I shall speak to Doran. Come now, show me to Jon’s side.” That she did with a small smile and a look which intimated knowledge beyond what she admitted. Rhaegar paid it little mind for he was infinitely more eager to see his son.

And he appeared to not be the only one. Within the bedchamber two more had gathered.  Unsurprisingly his son and daughter took delight in seeing him there as well. “I saw him blink, father,” Rhaenys said excitedly, tugging on his sleeve as he dismissed the septa.

“He did not,” Aegon countered. “I would have taken notice. You’ve been staring too long at the sun.”

“Not longer than you.” Rhaenys stuck her tongue out at her brother and turned her gaze back to Jon. “I promised him he would be fine. So I shall stay here until he is.”

“Admirable as your intentions are,” Rhaegar cut in, lifting Rhaenys to sit upon the bed, “I am certain he would not wish you to feel guilt.” He did the same for Aegon. “If you think of him as your companion, then do not treat him as a burden. All he needs is rest.”

His daughter bit her lower lip as her eyebrows knitted in confusion. “He did murmur aught. He might be dreaming.”  It certainly looked to Rhaegar as though the child slept. He placed a hand upon the boy’s forehead. Indeed, there was no fever. “Aegon, don’t poke him.”

“Aegon,” he warned as well, stopping his son from acting out his intentions. “You never know, he might well decide to take vengeance on you for this.”

“Jon wouldn’t. He is my friend,” the child claimed smugly. “I simply wanted to see if I could wake him.”

“If your bellowing hasn’t woken him, I doubt aught else would,” Rhaenys snapped. “Would you stop that?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Riding?” The last she’d ridden with her father was some short while before she’d gone off to wed Robert. He had not asked it often of her even when she was a child in his home. But then Lyanna had been a girl, for all her interest in those out of sight sparring sessions with Benjen and their rougher play. Alas, the topic presented little enough to linger over. “I should like that.”

The man nodded. The sort of motion which had always left her in doubt. It was not an answer she could quantify in some known emotion. She supposed it was the greatest wall between them, that he rarely, if ever allowed her to see what he was feeling. “Is that wise though?” she questioned. “I would not wish to tire Ashara and Marna is proving herself to be a little devil.”

“My good-daughter has the aid of her nursemaid. A few hours in the company of another babe is not likely to put her ill at ease.” Rickard held out a hand and helped her along the hallway, leading the way down the stairs. “Soon enough the matters of the realm shall leave me no time to spend with you. I would like to do my best in the meantime.”

“I see.” She did not see. Lyanna followed nevertheless, feeling as though a weight was being fixed upon her shoulders. Benjen had been so very vague, explaining only that father would ride with her and that he and Ned were needed elsewhere. “I am much obliged at the show of attention.”

To no one’s great surprise, horses had been saddled for them. The couple of beasts awaited their arrival with only a stableboy to keep them company. But they were docile things for barely a neigh left them. Nigh silent, their occasional shifting impeded no conversation from forming. If that was indeed the reason for which her father sought her company. And Lyanna found no other explanation. Suffice to say, trying to understand every single step the man took left her head a pounding mess.

They rode as Northerners often do, hard and fast, to what she supposed was the exasperation of the horses. But their gait was smooth, ensuing little chance of injury. In such a manner they passed the time until Lyanna saw her father slowing down his steed from the corner of her eye. She followed his example.

What they reached was a clearing. Not very wide, but secluded. A place in which one could talk without fearing too many ears were about. In fact, she was willing to bet there was no one around. “This is a lovely place,” Lyanna noted after a few beats of silence stretched out between them. “When have you had the time to find it?”

“This finding I blame on luck rather than on any time,” he chuckled, dismounting in one easy move. “I was riding with Ned and we stumbled upon this clearing. A happy accident.” He aided her down the took her horse by the reins, pulling it towards his own. “It struck me there are many a manner of accidents one has to keep an eye out for.”

“Indeed, life can be unpredictable.” If ever there had been a doubt in her mind that his intentions were not innocent, it was in that moment confirmed. Loft talk of fate and the hands it dealt had no place between them. Grappling with the unease slowly rising, Lyanna glanced about. Dappled light touched the ground beneath them, tugging playfully at the shadows. A sight which might have calmed her any other day.

“Methinks you would have some knowledge upon that matter.” She turned, eyeing him with undoubtedly obvious confusion. “I did wonder at this apparent discomfort regarding my grandson’s current location. ‘Tis very strange to me you would prefer he were here, exposed to the gods know what dangers, instead of in Dorne. After all, what is the danger of his being in Dorne?”

“You mistake me, father. Any mother would worry over her child being in what is without the slightest doubt foreign land.” Nay; his stare did not waver, nor did the ice melt.

“Fortunately, I was not born yesterday.” The horses had been secured, thus he was free to stalk towards her, putting Lyanna in the minds of years gone past when she’d been but a young girl, chastised for little instances of mischief. “Let us be clear. You will tell me exactly why you fear your son’s presence in Dorne.”

Instinctively, her head swivelled in frantic shakes. This was not happening. It was a night terror. She would wake any moment and find herself buried beneath a mound of furs, heaving, exertion apparent in those loud pants.

Unfortunately, no such saving grace was provided. Instead, pain bloomed in her cheek as the sound of flesh hitting flesh rent the air. “Must you act like a child?” her father asked, his calm manner much at odds with the crawling fear twisting within her. “Not only will you have placed the boy into great danger with your folly, but the rest of us will follow upon a single false step. The very least you can do is be honest.”

“I never meant–“ her defence was short lived though, as the patriarch interrupted.

“What you meant is irrelevant to this matter. I need only the facts. Your son’s life depends on it.” She clamped her lips shut. “You were breeding when you wedded Robert?” A hesitant nod came from her. “And this child, there is not even the sliver of a chance he is your husband’s?” Lyanna shook her head. “Good gods, why did you not say a thing?”

“I wanted to protect my child.” That was all she truly had. The only explanation beyond that which would implicate Rhaegar as well.

“By placing him in the direct path of danger.” The warden of the North had taken her father’s place. “You stupid girl; your husband would have been well within his rights to kill the both of you. No one would have had any right to stop him. What is worse, it would have been agreed upon that the punishment was fitting.”        

“You act as though you would not have murdered the babe. I know what happens to women who breed without wedlock. It meant a chance for Jon’s survival, and I took it and would do so again if I had to.”

“My gods. Of course you would; you stupid child.  I suppose that Jon has a sister rather than a step-sister.” At least he was not being direct about it.

“Aye.”

“Your children will be grown someday as well. I hope you live through moments such as these. You and Brandon. It’s a wonder Ned turned out as decent as he did. And the gods only know what path Benjen will take. A chance to live, she says. I would have given him a chance to live. We are not kinslayers. Out of all the foolish things to do.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear to God, YT is going to drive me insane. If you can believe it I have spent hours listening to AR song parodies, trying to decide if it's alright to laugh as hard as I do, and then of course there's the #FreeKekistan whole matter. I've never been happier. I love this; 2017 is a great year to be alive. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter.
> 
> Shadilay!


	37. Willows Whiten, Aspens Quiver

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You have been found at long last.” The moon shone overhead, the silvery light slashing against the uncovered face of the woman. Jon knew himself to have stumbled upon trouble. It was much too late to run though. There was no Crow to aid him, nor any soothsayer of ages past to guide his steps. “Do you not enjoy spending time with your brother?”

“I have no brothers,” he protested. For a brief moment he considered correcting her by making mention of his sister. She was just a babe, his sister; it would be unfair to put her in such danger. “Why have you sent him after me?” He shot a glare to the boy who’d led him through the narrow streets. His companion expression twisted ever so slightly, blue eyes retaining a feline shine.

“For the same reason I have sought you out on my own. And now you are here, of your own accord, no less.” She held a hand out, her smile inviting. The pull exerted was more than enough to have him stepping forth despite his best attempt to oppose the call. “Come now, I do not mean you any harm, but simply wish to show you my people.”

Since he had come of his own accord, Jon did not suppose he might now pretend himself an innocent in the matter. A murmur of protest still rose to his lips. His companion, presumably in the power of the woman as well, grabbed at his arm, his hold strong. The crackling of his voice worked towards soothing him, suffused with understanding.

He was led deeper into the settlement.

In the middle of it, much like a cradle overshadowed by the wide bed, a long structure stood. Its doors were set wide apart and within he could see forms drifting to and fro. They seemed to be men. Tall men with wide shoulders and garbed in warrior’s attire. Some of them had gathered around a table and were conversing in that tongue of theirs, ice crackling and breaking beneath the weight of every word.

One or two turned their head at the woman’s entrance, a slight bow the only attention they paid to their mother. She answered him kind with a wave of the hand. Still, none of them glanced to him or his companion. Not that Jon found true cause of complaint. Their lack of attention simply meant he would not die on that day. “I should like for you to meet one of my eldest children.”

Leading the way, she took him by the shoulders, steering him towards a lone figure. The man was seated upon a chair, conversing with what looked to be a simple soldier, for his dress was less ostentatious. It was then that he heard her speak in those crackling notes for the first time and the tongue seemed less to him as though a child had reached a precious harp and proceeded to murder any shred of musical beauty. It sounded clear and flowing, like a song. A mournful dirge, but a song nevertheless.

“This is him,” her words registered in his ears. “The one I spoke to you of.”

Radiant blue scrutinised him without a drop of warmth. Instinctively, he retreated a step, wishing he had his mother along. “And you did not believe it when I told you,” the Queen continued, amusement permeating her every word.

The man scoffed. “A boy” he said. Beneath the firm tone was a light accent He’d heard the lilt in his grandfather’s voice as well. Jon’s brow furrowed in concentration, trying to pinpoint the exact context of it. Not one of his uncles had displayed a similar trait. “Too great a risk.”

He was lost. Jon frowned. He wanted to speak back, but the fellow did not look as though he might appreciate his intervention. “You have too little faith.” Her hand dropped from his shoulder to settle upon his back. “Do not let him intimidate you. He could be your teacher, if you wished. A better warrior you shan’t find. Think upon it; I boast not untrue when I declare him so. The last of the ice dragons fell to his lance.”

The last of the ice dragons was the last of Jon’s worries. He did not offer an answer though, for all fear crowded words upon the tip of his tongue, piling them carelessly. “Ice dragons?” he questioned instead. “There are no ice dragons.”

“Not now, there are not,” the warrior agreed. “Cuirithir was the last I ever so. A magnificent beast. A pity your kind was never inclined to cement that alliance.” He blinked, the bog of confusion deepening. “I see you find it unbelievable.” Did these creatures read minds? “I understand the fire drakes have woken though.” How did he know that? A chuckle sprang from the man’s lips. “I await the day of confrontation.”

“Then you court your doom,” Jon finally gathered the wherewithal to say. Everyone knew the Targaryens conquered the Seven Kingdoms with their dragons. If invaders thought they could withstand the force of such beasts they were well and truly foolish.

“I was slaying dragons long before you were a bet in the making, little babe.” The warrior stood to his feet, towering over both Jon and the Queen, though she herself was tall as a spear. “Do you truly think you stand a chance against us?” He gestures to the rest of his companions.

Grimacing, Jon resisted the urge to stomp his feet. Just barely. “If you truly so great, why have you not conquered even one of the kingdoms? Methinks ‘tis only words to be found here.”

“Would you be willing to bet your life upon this?”

Ait struck Jon at that point that not once had he been spoken to as a child. He was not being asked to promise a trivial thing to a parent. Nay; this was a matter which had to do with his life. “Would you be?” There was the Wall to consider. It had kept these beings at bay for long before he was born. It would continue to do so. “I have naught to lose.”

“Aye, that must be the fire in him speaking,” the contender mused. “You certainly know how to find them, Your Majesty. A warlord in the making, I see.” The sentiment revealed only a half-mocking edge. The words themselves reminded him of his erstwhile protector. “Well, little warlord, grow, and let us both fulfil our part of this bargain, aye? I shall bring my army, and you your when the time is right.”

As though he would ever make it past the Wall. Jon nodded his head in agreement. In the meantime, his presence here could be beneficial after all. Even without his protector, he might find some weakness to use against these enemies. “Now my son, do not act impatient. Our little warlord might have a greater destiny awaiting him than matching skill with you. Come along, child.”

His young companion fell a few paces behind as the Queen continued to introduce him to her cohorts. Most of them were quiet, apparently content to nod, look him up and down and return to whatever they’d been doing before. Alas, no one thought to ask after the merit of such an introduction. And by the Queen’s words these were trusted advisers and well-beloved heroes.  Likely as not, he would not recall all of them, but he’d taken note of slight differences in the woman’s manner of address, signalling a slight disapproval. Not of him; but of her own people. As though they were overlooking an important aspect. If only he could figure out what displeased her.

Jon glanced over his shoulder to the boy who’d stolen his face. There was a small smile on his face, an encouraging gesture doubled with a nod. His own lips pursed as they made their way to a staircase. The Queen climbed with ease, but his own feet slipped upon the steps carved in ice. The edges were much too sharp, surfaces polished to maddening perfection. He stumbled and thought he would fall, only for his weight to be lifted easily.

Tinkling laughed alleviated his embarrassment. “Do not fear. No harm shall come to you as long as you are in my company.” Another arm lined with his own. Jon met his doppelgänger’s stare. The boy merely shrugged.

At the top of the stairs was a simple corridor which swerved to the side, leasing to a wide door. It was half-closed, allowing for faint light to slip through the crack. A sure indication there was someone within. No doubt another task to face with assurance in his heart that his own people would prevail. Jon swallowed a sigh and followed with quick steps, dragging the other child along as they both struggled to keep up.

Beyond the door was a chamber much like any other chamber. Tapestries hung upon the walls, a table sat in the middle, chairs were dispersed in various spots.  Only one of them was occupied. By a man. Neither young, nor old, the sole occupant of the chamber shared a faint similarity with the Queen in that his hair retained a silvery shine and his skin glowed pale. His eyes though were different. They were not the vibrant blue he’d come to expect of his hosts. Or more accurately, they were not at all. There were no eyes, but gaping coves of empty darkness. They’d been removed by some manner. His lavish dress marked him as part of the Queen’s close circle, along with the great sword resting against the side of his seat. The blade was light naught Jon had ever seen.  

The Queen finally released him, gliding past Jon to reach the man’s side. “You will not believe whom I have brought to see you,” she told him, placing an arm upon his shoulder. He did not speak. There was not even a strange crackling to be heard. “You must forgive my King, it has been long since they took away from him all his abilities” Her fingers combed through his hair in an oddly fond gesture. “He does not see and he does not speak. They have left him a shell. But come closer, he should like your presence, for he has not seen kindred of his own for many an age.”

He could not see him anyway. Jon steps towards the man, eyes falling to the gleaming blade. They shifted to the side, then back to the empty sockets and the grim face. It was a long, lean face, without a single line in sight. And the Queen had addressed him as King; her husband. Nissa Nissa had been wedded to Azor Ahai. Could this man be him? But nay, the graves of the heroes housed the boy of Man’s saviour.

Had the Crow lied to him? Was it possible that he’d simply been wrong? Even with all the knowledge he possessed? Jon stumbled over his own feet, falling forth with a small sound.  His descent was interrupted by a pair of hands, lifting him heavenwards. Fingers dug into his arms, a face close of his. Black holes stared into his eyes and their glare ripped into flesh, rending a path to his soul.

Kinship was felt in the bones. And he felt an undeniable sense of kinship towards this man, whoever he was. A true king of winter, victim to his own machinations and loneliness and folly. Might be a victim to his own heart’s desire. Understanding crawled its way within his mind, a primal push towards sympathy for a man he could neither aid, nor defend.  

Nay for the blackness was not a mere lack of sight, but a lack of soul. The chill of that absence wrapped around him in a tight shackle. The man’s fingers squeezed his arms. Might be these creatures did not read minds, but they certainly knew how to make theirs known.

And he was learning as much as he could, as fast as he could.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy my little snowflakes....


	38. Tap Tap Tap The Closer You Get

 

 

 

 

 

 

“A gift?” Lyanna regarded her brother with thinly veiled interest. Whatever would he wish to venture out for? There were many a things he could leave in the care of others. “Why not have Benjen select one when he goes?”

“I meant a gift which I’ve picked out,” Ned clarified, looking rather lost for a moment. It would have been amusing were it not for the fact that Lyanna rather felt for her brother. He’d not been wedded long and there was already a child. “I thought you might aid.”

What with obviously having made many a gift to her own children, Lyanna drawled to herself. “I should be glad to.” Alys she was not quite as certain for. Her own daughter was sleeping in her cradle, watched by the ever-present Darys and his ribbons of flashing colour. If aught could put a distance between child and dragon than Lyanna would be much surprised. But there was Tilly, and provided all went well her absence would be overlooked. “You do know the poor thing is not likely to be able to enjoy a gift for some time yet.” She could not help it.

Ned rolled his eyes. “I am not daft.” Nay, only enamoured. Whoever had said father did not prize daughter had clearly never met a father in their life. “Shall I wait for you here or am I allowed within your chambers?”

Realising that she had been indeed keeping him at the door, she drew out of the way and gestured vaguely for him to enter. “I beg your pardon,” Lyanna murmured, as he stepped past her, pushing the door closed once he was within. “Have a seat, won’t you? What brought this on?”

He shrugged, sitting upon a stool. “It still feels somewhat unreal. Obviously I know Marna is here, but it feels as though there are precious little traces of her.”

“Precious little traces, you say.” With one glance to the tired rings of violet he sported, she made a thoughtful sound. “It is a good enough idea, I suppose. Have you thought of bringing something back for Ashara as well. The very first time a woman becomes a mother is a special occasion.”

A frown marred her brother’s features. He raised one eyebrow in consternation. “And here I was thinking every single time is special.”

“You did not take my meaning. Of course every child is special. I simple meant a first is in itself extraordinary.” She shook her head. “Can I trust that you shall wait for a few moments without causing a ruckus? Alys is sleeping.”

“Stealth is among my sills, sister dearest. Go ready yourself as you deem fit.” At least he was in good enough humour, she considered, venturing through one of the side doors.

There was little to take other than a thick cloak and heavy boots. Come to think of it, an outing could be of service to her as well. It was a chance to look for a few finer cloths for Alys. Not that she had aught against the lines and wools provided thus far. It was simply that it never hurt to expand upon one’s stock. With that in mind, she was careful to count a few coins in her own pouch which she tied to her girdle before leaving the small chamber.

In the meantime her brother had found a single wooden sculpture which he held up for inspection. “This looks as though someone has worked long hours upon it.” An appreciative nod followed his statement. “Did we not use to have similar figures at home? The ones father bought for Brandon, I believe.”

“I do believe you have the right of it. But we’ve never had a wyvern as far as I recall.” He was still holding the winged creature when she approached. “Benjen brought a whole set of beasts for Jon when he came visiting. I do not know how this ended up here though. Tilly must have found it in my trunk.”

“Has she now?” he questioned softly, placing the piece in her awaiting palm. “The poor lad must be missing his wyvern.”

“If he were here I could return it,” her answer came. “Only that someone decided it would be a good idea to send him off to Dorne.”

“You are still mad at father for that?” Her grimace should have been answer enough. Nevertheless, even Ned had his moments. “I daresay he’s much gladder for it though. He seems to have taken to the Crown Prince. You know, this is rather fortunate. Think only is father convinced Brandon to send his son here as well.”  

“And here I thought you did not enjoy politics, brother.” Of all the times to find himself growing aware of the situation their house could profit from. She forced a smile upon her lips. “What next? Shall you strive for a position upon the King’s council?”

“I would rather leave that to mind wiser than mine.” He stood at long last. “But I can still see advantages which are obvious.” He nodded as though to strengthen his own words and took her by the shoulder. “Whatever reason you give me, I fear father is planning aught of this nature.”

Were she to tell him Jon’s father likely had a similar plan, her poor kith and kin would suffer an apoplexy and then Marna would grow without a father. Not a fate she wished on any child.  “Let us not worry for the unknown. There is a gift we are searching for.” She trusted that would keep her busy enough. “Come along, brother.” Before he found another sore point to poke at. For all it was worth, she did not trust herself not to babble. And much as she loved Ned, though he lacked Brandon’s fire, he had plenty of steel one could cut themselves onto, while at the same time not having been blessed with either Benjen’s subtlety or father’s ambition. And that was, indeed, very troubling.

Thus the guest for a special present was set upon by sister and brother, each armed with coin, good sense and a tiny amount of impatience on the side of the new father. Lyanna, more or less used to waiting with patience for all things to be readied, did not even blink at the stable boys’ lack of efficiency. What she had not expected though was an interloper.

There was no nemesis she faced, thanked be the gods. Had it been Cersei in the stables the apoplexy would have been Lyanna’s. Or might be the hangman’s noose. However, before her stood a clearly pleased Lysene pillow girl. Her brother though, was not as pleased.

“I have heard you are going without,” the woman said, offering a brief seductive smile to the man. For Lyanna she had a tamer version, which encompassed her eyes as well. “Your good-sister seemed to be of the opinion that you should not be on your own. If case any situation should arise, of course.”      

Noting that the marking attire of a pillow girl had been replaced with a simple dark kirtle and a nondescript cloak, Lyanna could not object to the woman’s presence on any grounds whatsoever. She shrugged and accepted those words. “Ashara is very kind to show concern,” she said after a brief pause. “And I reckon you long for an escape as well, brief as it might be. But you needn’t come with us, you know; if you would rather be doing something else.”

“Nay, that I would not. You forget, my lady, I have no master but my own mind.” With that, she successfully inserted herself into the group. For all that Ned was regarding her dubiously. Lyanna chose to ignore that. Instead she focused her gaze upon the mare which had been prepared for her.     

The horse threw its head back, mane flying with each movement. It neighed and trod back and forth until the boy holding him gave a sharp tug on the reins. “Best you have a care with that,” she warned softly, approaching the beast. Climbing without aid was a rather difficult trick to accomplish, but she rallied her strength behind a notion that her doing so would be a pleasant enough experience and proceeded despite the fact that the saddle cut deeply into her stomach as she made her way through the motions. One could argue it would have been better to wait upon aid, but then, there was no element of excitement to that.

Once all three of them were prepared to undertake their little journey she turned slightly towards her female companions. “I should like an explanation for this peculiar proceeding.”

“And there shall be one, upon my soul. But not before we are safely without the keep’s walls.” And that was that. No point in needling any farther, Lyanna supposed, for she could tell it would win her little other than a frown or some such reaction meant to dissuade her. The virtue of patience would have to be cultivated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“One might readily assume there is little to be said in such situations,” the man sighed, a brief smile showcasing a row of straight teeth. “But then I have always supposed that anyone who would assume such a point has not had much to do with fellow humans. My lady, I do assure you, there is no reason to hide.”

“And in truth I did not mean to hide. Apologies; I do not know what came over me. Forsooth ‘tis the lack of sleep.” He knew the woman. Bonifer made a small noise at her musings as though to let her know he was not at all upset. “You must think me a ninny, ser.”

“Hardly. I know not well enough to pass such a cruel judgement,” he offered without the slightest hint of effort. Why would she be hiding at any rate. They were in the gardens. It was hardly a cesspool; though one was aware of the occasional inconveniencing presence of some thorn or another. Inevitably, in court they were not to be missed. “Might be you would allow me to form an opinion though.”

“Only if I am given the same privilege in return,” she answered, sweeping her raven hair over one shoulder. “I do believe you are Ser Bonifer Hasty, aye?” He nodded. “I am Ashara, wedded to Ser Eddard Stark.” And that explained the familiarity. Though, it was not as if her face was in any way forgettable.

“You are a new mother, are you now?” Her lips curved in a gentle smile. The Lord Hand’s good-daughter, of course. How could it have escaped him? He ought to have paid more mind. Too late for regrets. “Allow me to congratulate you.” She accepted the words with grace, her smile widening slightly. He supposed she looked the part of a new mother, what with the slight aura of wear and the pure adoration emanating at the mere mention of her child. A striking feature, even more so than her beauty. “A daughter it is, if I recall; I shall pray she grows as lovely as her mother.”

“You, ser, are a terrible, terrible man to be handing out such compliments without discrimination. “ Nevertheless, she ended upon a light chuckle. “Might I ask as to the reason of your prolonged stay?” She allowed him to take her arm and they began moving together down the path.

“King’s Landing is not unknown to me. I have spent some of my boyhood years in the keep. Whenever I have the chance to return, I am very glad to do so. Provided His Majesty is not contrary to the notion of my staying, I do not expect a swift departure.” He heard her hum and eyes her to better gauge her reaction. But there was naught which suggested any shred of knowledge. An innocent question then, meant to relieve the silence between two strangers. “And you, my lady?”

“I am at the mercy of my husband, as any wife. But I enjoy King’s Landing as well as any other would.”      

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

“We are not going to have the same conversation over and over again, are we?” Bonifer questioned, a look of slight distress settling upon his face. “Rhaella, I would not wish to see you injured. Even by your own ambitions; no matter the good intentions behind them.  This could turn out to be a disastrous move.”

He’d been at it for some time now, the proverbial mother hen, pecking at her brains for obedience. Her eyes shifted from the sight provided by the lancet, drifting from slowly rolling clouds and a sallow-grey colour of the vast expanse before her to the more vibrant tapestry cloth lying in her lap. “A disastrous move?” she pondered out loud, her fingers tracing a small pattern. The corner had been cut slightly by a mistake she’d made. From afar it would not be visible. At close glance though the pattern was indeed ruined. A puff of air slid past her lips.

“I do not mean to come between mother and son–“

“Then do not.” She dragged a nail over the uneven rows, scratching the surface aggressively. The threat gave way, lint rising through the ranks. “I know him better than anyone. He is just being stubborn.” Going off on his own without so much as a word, chasing after a she-wolf. Rhaegar and his dreams.

If aught could be said about her son, then it had to be that he was a dreamer.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His shadow briefly smiled, moving to the side as Jon stepped after him. He was not entirely certain where he was being led. Other than the fact that they’d been given leave to explore, Jon knew naught. Might be that was sufficient reason to grow suspicious, but he’d not been harmed up to that point and he’d begun to grow used to these creatures all about him. “Does the King’s sword have a name?” he questioned after a moment of hesitation.

The other boy turned to look at him, rising one eyebrow. He spread his lips wide and made a hissing sound. There were a few syllables there, though the vowels seemed to be utterly lacking and the consonants came out bent and crooked. Jon attempted to reproduce the sequence. His companion shook his head and repeated the word. “Dyrnwyn. Dyrnwyn?” He wrinkled his nose. “That fells like I broke my tongue on it.”

Laughter came from his brother-in-arms. There was aught which might have served for an explanation, were Jon capable of figuring out what was being said. “Dyrnwyn.” He repeated the word a few more times, wondering if it was indeed what the sword was called. He tried to place the slender built with any other type of sword he’d seen. Not to mention the metal. If that was metal. He’d seen his fair share of swords before. There were always men at arms training, and then there were the tales of others. He’d yet to hear about glass being fashioned into weaponry worthy of battle.

And that hilt. While his attention had rested only fleetingly upon the bone-white of it, Jon had been able to make out a few strange shaped embedded into it. They’d been similar in shape to runes he’d seen in the great lichyard. If indeed he was understanding it right, the weapon was as old and the conflict itself and had served a master long before it ended up in the King’s hand. If only he could find someone who spoke the tongue and would be willing to help him.

The possibility was as slim as finding a needle in a haystack, he reckoned. Nevertheless, it would be prudent to keep an opened eye. With that thought in mind, Jon focused upon the other boy who’d begun speaking. The words were starting to sound familiar. Some of them he’d heard before. The two of them entered a hut. There was no fire waiting for them, nor any person in sight. But his companion rushed towards a chest and opened it, rummaging while Jon wandered about, inspecting everything in sight.

One wall had been adorned with a modest tapestry. Whoever had worked upon it showed a decisive lack of concentration. Several flowers had been fractures into uneven halves, warriors severed and rivers broken. A small smile pressed itself upon his lips. He traced one of the patterns with the tip of his fingers and was surprised to find that the cloth was cool. More than cool, frigid. Jon pulled his finger back and looked at the flaked skin. A droplet of blood bubbled to life. As though he’d pricked his finger. Gingerly, he put the tip in his mouth, swirling his tongue around it in even laps. The taste of blood lingered even as he pulled the digit away, searching the surface for further injury. A grim despondency swirled along with another wave of blood, this time the bead sported the blackness of the void. Was he being called away, might be? His time at an end?

Nay. Before that thought could take root, he was brought back to the matter at hand by a tug and a few words. In his hand was placed a small dagger. It was crafted in the same manner of the sword he’d seen upon the King. Jon frowned at it. He doubted it could be used in battle. It was much too small. Still, he was given to understand it was simply the manner in which they made weapons and not some great sword, though it could still be a great sword. There were no runes he could see upon this hilt. Handing the object back, Jon moved about, looking at what else there was to see in such small a space.

It looked for all intents and purposes like a lived-in home, though there was not a soul to be seen. Might be they were in the hall, with the others. All men had been there, drinking and talking. Not an unusual sight. Jon allowed himself yet another frown, a peculiar thought coming to mind. It occurred to him that beside the Queen, he’d yet to see another woman about. Not even an old crone or a young girl. With a whip-fast movement, he turned to face the boy. “Where is your mother? Do you have a sister?” Since they shared a face, who was to say they did not share a familiarities beyond that as well.

In response he produced like words. They sounded as though he were trying for accuracy as well as comprehension. From the long look he offered, though, Jon was not quite certain he’d made himself clear. He motioned to himself, pointing a finger to his heart.  “A family; people you care about. Family. A mother, a father. A brother or a sister.” Gesturing to the empty space at his side, he said, “kith and kin.” Uncomprehending stares followed the almost-plea he’d launched. Fortunately for Jon, he was not above explaining his point over and over again. In the end he even resorted to using the word the boy had used.

What he got for his effort was a bewildered shake of the head and a string of words joined by hand movements. He managed to piece together only that there was no sister or mother to speak of, and if there had ever been, they were long departed. A sobering notion. Still, that did not explain the absolute absence of any female other than the Queen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Guess who's back. Back again. Anyway, yes Darya is back, to be a walking tome of knowledge and presumably help with the whole mission.
> 
> Clue: 1) 9-14 20-8-5 13-1-18-11-5-20 1-23-1-9-20-19 23-8-5-18-5 25-15-21 4 12-1-19-20 5-24-16-5-3-20 1 2-9-20 15-6 1-9-4 
> 
> 2) 20-8-5-18-5 9-19 1-12-23-1-25-19 3-8-15-9-3-5 
> 
> 3) 20-8-5 15-14-12-25 1-14-19-23-5-18 9-19 3-8-1-14-7-5
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Update 13/02/2017: Apparently, my computer's gone to $h!t and deleted approximately 8k worth of wordy adevtures....so you'll have to make do with this until I can retype everything......fml.


	39. Dressed Up In A Summer Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the end notes. Think of it as a request.
> 
> Title from [Broken Twin - Sun Has Gone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wHRategb11k)

 

 

 

 

 

 

A light drizzle had threatened to fall upon the market square and chase away scores of those gathering in the hopes of finding good bargains. Mercifully, that was not the case, for through greeted teeth and sheer determination, the prospective buyers persevered in their reaching, relentlessly advancing upon the merchants and their ware. Resilient breed that they were the merchants were only too pleased with the shape the day was taking.

The hustle and bustle of the busy streets permeated through the most distracted of attentions. Certainly it was difficult to miss the hoarse voices yelling out their wares, expounding upon the benefits they conferred. It was a pretty sight. All the colours and smells, strange shapes and patterns sprawled indolently for all eyes to see. A stark reminder that a vast world took shape beyond the mundane walls of keeps.

“This reminds me of White Harbor,” Lyanna said, looking at Ned for confirmation. “We went when you came home in the spring. I think you were two-and-ten.” Or had he been older? Father had made several visits to White Harbor and he’d brought her along once, without any of her siblings.

“Was that when Brandon almost got caught coming back from,” her brother paused, looking towards their third companion, “his entertainments.”

“You do remember. I was more worried for father than I was for him though. Can you imagine what would have happened had he been caught?” She laughed at the thought, joined by Ned.

“I had to keep watch for him the whole night through. Might be I should have just found my bed instead.” Lyanna nodded in agreement. “Some discipline would have worked wonders on him.”

“Alas, poor Ned; the time for such brilliance is past. At most you can hope to conjure a solid fantasy of it.” It was what she would do.

As for Brandon, father ought to have taken him over his knee and dealt his bottom a good few slaps. Never mind that he’d been a good number of years her senior by then and their parent would have encountered many a difficulty in lifting him. She shook her head, the amused smile gracing her lips keeping its place when she considered that father had been, in truth, despite any complaints to the contrary, a very lenient fellow. He might have had them all horsewhipped at some point or another for unrepentant tomfoolery.

“I can see it clearly,” Ned interrupted her musings. “Moon hanging high in the sky. Torches burning bright. Brandon sneaking in with the taste of victory sweet upon his lips. Oblivious to the danger awaiting him, he hurries through the halls, in search of his bedchamber.”

“All seems well,” Lyanna pitched in, “until the realisation hits him; he cannot quite place his door.” Ned raised one eyebrow at that. She shrugged. “He had been keeping a close eye on that knight’s daughter, if you recall.”

“Which one are you talking about?” Making a thoughtful noise as they approached their destination, Ned pulled on his horse’s reins. “The one with a mole on her cheek?”    

“That very one. She had green hair.” Unable to help herself, she pulled a face, then turned to Darya. “My brother never could resist the lure of an exotic presentation.” A giggle followed close upon the heels of her assessment. “The knight’s daughter, unfortunately, proved as diligent in guarding her virtue as she was in changing her appearance.”

“A failed pursuit,” Darya sighed, a wealth of understanding in her words. “At least one can always fall back on the soothing services of trained lovers. Your brother would have known her door from his, I reckon, though as a woman, I confess getting lost in a maze of a keep never failed to bring excitement. There is always so much to explore.”

“Better that Brandon did not explore a thing,” Ned said, his mien losing some of its lightness. “Lord Manderly would not have stood for it, let alone father. That girl did the right thing.”

“And she was to wed some household knight too,” Lyanna offered helpfully. “I only lament the lack of entertainment in that regard. Nevertheless, let us return to our concerns.”

They continued the conversation until they’d reached a small yard. A burly man came forth, effusive greeting upon his lips. He aided both herself and Darya down from their horses and swore to care for the beasts as though they were his own children. If aught of the delivery courted gaiety, good-will was conjured by the man’s abundant jests and somewhat scatter-brained manner. He was, in other words, a perfect bland of diligent host and courtly fool.      

He led the way to the stables, a wide building enough to swallow three dozen horses, carefully crafted if a tad cluttered. One of the hands came to take two horses, leading them to a couple of empty stalls. “They will be safe 'ere and naught shall be any different when you 'ave arrived to fetch them.”

All in all, it seemed to be the case that the horses would have the best of conditions during the short absence of their rightful owners. The man spoke a few words to Ned and her brother nodded, offering a number of coins, presumably in payment for the services rendered. The stable hand returned for  the third horse, leading it away as well, placing the beast close to her own horse. The creature neighed and shook its mane, but other than that accepted confinement with a proud toss of the head.

“That horse is in good spirits,” Darya noted, smiling in the general direction of the stalls. “I wonder at the low number of horses though.”

“’Tis because you folk are early comers,” the owner explained, quite at ease with intervening in their exchange. “The hour is yet early for travellers to be arriving. But they will, mark my words, and then this place will be swarming with 'orseflesh.” A gleeful light in his eyes detailed his thought upon that prospective outcome.

“I suppose it would be very busy,” Lyanna allowed, nodding towards the owner. “And tell me innkeeper, are there enough hands about to satisfy the demand for labour or must you gather aid from around?”

“There are enough ‘ands, aye,” he chuckled, cheeks growing ruddy from the attention bestowed upon him. “M’ladies need not worry that their beasts shan’t be cared for. An’ if it be that I need more ‘elp, me brother is always willing to lend his own arms.”

“How very good of him. A brothers’ bond, I see.” Darya locked her arm through hers as she moved slightly to the side. “Family can be so very good.”      

The innkeeper regaled them with a few lines about his brother before his attention was caught by one of his men trying to unfasten some belts. “What a man. Were that they were all at least half as jovial,” Darya said, tugging Lyanna aside. “Your brother seems to have made all the arrangements he cared to make.”

As if to prove that point, Ned beckoned the both of them over. “The horses will be safe enough here. Not to mention close enough should any need arise. I say we proceed with this.”

“An excellent notion, brother. Darya, shall we?” The pillow girl offered an easy nod.

Ned, how gazed between the two of them , opened his mouth, for a brief moment looking as though he wished to say something; then promptly shut it. He offered his arm to her. One could always count on Ned to be overly cautious. For a second time, she inspected Darya, trying to gauge whether her profession could be guessed from a perusal of her form. It would be a difficult feat to accomplish, she decided.

It would be a lie to say Darya had lost any of her charm with the additional layers of clothing. She did, however, present a tamer version, which stood to her advantage. Silver locks and blue-violet eyes attracted stare no matter the cloth covering her. “I am curious, are you ever allowed to stroll on your own through the markets?” she questioned, leaning slightly towards the woman.

“Why would I not be?” the Lysene woman giggled. “It is not as though we are kept prisoners. We may come and go as we will, so long as our duties are seen to.”

“What is to stop any of your sisters-in-trade run off, then?” Would any of them wish to, though? Life was difficult enough without having to bed for one’s food.

“Lyanna, this is hardly an acceptable topic for conversation,” her kin pointed out, the low notes in his voice telling of the restraint he was exercising. “And not in the middle of the market, for the love of all gods.”

She rolled her eyes and turned towards his slightly. “I was hardly yelling the words out. And I am curious.”

“You are a lady.” As though that worked to stem the flow of her curiosity.

“Need I point out I am not a shrivelling maiden who will faint at the mere mention of an indelicate word. Good heavens, Ned.” To take the edge off she forced a light chuckle upon her lips. “Just leave me to it, and I promise I shan’t being this up over supper, aye?”

“Heaves help you if you do,” he muttered in turn. “Very well. I shall be ahead.” With that he gently disengaged from her and stepped in the general direction of an assortment of stalls.

“He is not very pleased with me, I reckon,” Darya spoke, her eyes following her brother’s progress.

“Ned is very much set in his ways. But he means well. Do not take offence at his reticence. With Brandon and Benjen as irreverent as they are, Ned feels it is his duty to uphold certain moral standards.” She only hoped her explanation made his actions understandable.

Though she needn’t have worried. Darya’s mien betrayed not even the slightest sign of concern. “Nay. I understand perfectly well. And he was not half as harsh as he could have been.” She blinked, the steered the both of them in the opposite direction. “It would be monstrously unfair of me to blame him for moral standards he beholds himself to.”

“A forgiving soul, I see. Well, that is that then. Back to my question.” She patted her companion’s hand encouragingly.

“I have never thought about that. Most of the girls, even the ones not desirous of their position, lack any other set of skills. Realistically, the lot of them know there are precious few options.” She cocked her head to the side. “And even if one of them did run, she would still fall back of the only thing she knows. But now with no protection.”

“So ‘tis the lesser of two evils.” Darya agreed. “Why not simply seek to become someone’s favourite, a permanent fixture in a man’s life?”

“Pillow girls are an expensive vice to keep, and sometimes even more expensive to buy. You see, since we have been provided with a home and food and clothes, all of that must be somehow repaid. Especially if one wants to maintain her status. In that sense we are no better than slaves. If a client wants to buy us, as it were, he must cover all of these expenses. Not many a man can.”

“What of the man you came with?” He’d been some merchant or somesuch, if Lyanna recalled correctly. “If you are still here, has he bought you, as you say?”

“Not precisely. He bought some of my time. But my stay here I have funded myself.” They stepped before a wide stall, filled with all manners of silks. Darya perused through the selection, eyeing the wraps of material. “This one looks promising.”

Lyanna leaned in as well. “The pattern is very nice.” She pinched an edge between her fingers and lifted it. The butterfly-shapes strewn across the expanse of light blue fabric ripples with a myriad of colours. “But this is such a fussy colour. I’d fear leaving it anywhere near a babe.”

“Might be something a little darker.” Darya sifted through the ware further back. “This one looks like it might do.” She pulled the fabric closer for inspection as the merchant approached them, smile on his face. He spoke the Common Tongue with a pronounced accent.

Darya replied, in what Lyanna assumed to be her native Lyseni. The man’s grin broadened further. He gesticulated with his hands and replied in a like tongue. Lyanna allowed her eyes to move from one to the other, trying to glean some sort of understanding.

Unfortunately for her, knowledge of High Valyrian was weak with her, whether because she never could gather the wherewithal to learn, or because life was simply much too short to do so, it made no matter. The fact remained her brain refused to process anything beyond incomprehensible sounds. She sighed softly, not precisely certain what she was to make of the increasingly loud voices. The smiles had not faded, but the tones were quickly changing. It was bound to be a most interesting event. Thus she leaned slightly backwards.

A weight pressed down her shoulder. Lyanna tensed, somehow managing to keep from squealing in fright. She glanced over his shoulder, not entirely surprised to see Ned standing behind her, a questioning look in his eyes. “Do I want to know what is going on?”

“I couldn’t say,” she replied, keeping her voice soft. “She might be haggling with him over the price, or she might be threatening to unman; at the same time, they might just be reminiscing.” She blinked, looking from the arguing couple to her sibling. “Can you not understand what they are saying?”

“Why would I be able to understand?” Ned moved closer.

“I thought you took lessons during your stay with Lord Arryn. He was supposed to take care of that aspect as well, you know.” Pursing her lips up at him, she batted her eyelashes in an attempt to assert her innocence should Ned take it into his head to chastise her.

Seeming to understand her reaction, her brother gave a minute shake of his head. “Aye, he did. That did not include my learning all the variants of Bastard Valyrian known to man. However, if you truly wish to know what they are saying, you might consider asking someone to translate for you.” He gestured towards the more-tab-one-single pair of eyes watching the exchange with clear amusement. Which could only mean whatever was being said presented a heavy dose humour.  At that point she truly wanted to know what was being said.

“Could you at the very least pretend you wish me satisfied?” she muttered for her brother’s benefit, eyeing the laughing Darya.  

“I do wish you satisfied, but in this I fear I cannot aid. Either learn from someone here what is being said, or be satisfied in your ignorance.” He grinned, quite happy with his comeback.

She would have answered with some comment about lazy minds, but that would only put them on the path of an argument. And it seemed to be that Darya was just breaking from her own quarrel, a self-assured smile on her face. She turned to face Lyanna. “I haven’t had this much excitement in my life since,” she trailed off, no doubt picking through her memories, “since I found myself on the receiving end of an invitation to hie to Westeros. ‘Tis always nice to encounter familiar mannerism.” Then she proceeded to explain her actions. “He his ware hails from Lorath. I told him I know Lorathi velvet when I see it.”

Ned, quite uncomprehending, shrugged his shoulders, silently asking for further explanation. Darya rolled her eyes. “Ser, this is the dominion of women. You are neither meant to understand, nor in need to.”

“Right she is. I doubt you shall ever have cause to peruse through bolts of fabric. Come along, Darya, before the whole markets takes it to watch us for entertainment.” They departed. “Was the velvet truly from Lorath?”

“It might well have been, but it was of inferior kind. Even there, not all yards of velvet are created equal.”

“How glad I am to have you with me then. I predict there will be no pitfall for me to fall into on this account.” And well that there wasn’t. Ned would be more than enough to handle without having to worry she was cheated out of her coin.

“Of course I shan’t stand for that. Keep close to me, my lady, and there will be no pitfall.ls of any kind.” For some odd reason, Lyanna thought the woman was not speaking of fabrics. She eyed the Lysene pillow girl with a smidgeon of interest, willing an answer to come forth.

But Darya, either too smart to show all her cards at once, or too plain to catch onto what was being asked, made a sound of delight as her gaze fell upon another stand. “There. Look at that. That is true Lorathi velvet.”

“How can you tell just by looking?” For herself, she’d always resorted to the tried method of feeling a texture before she put even one coin in the game.

“Look at the way it catches the light,” her companion advised. They approached, looking at the ware. Lyanna thought she heard Ned sigh, but decided not to turn and find out whether he had or if her imagination was at fault.

Eyeing a rich blue velvet, she dragged one finger over it. “This one looks very well.” The dark hues also promised some relief from early ruin.    

“This as well.” Darya presented her with a moss-green piece.

“At times, I wonder if the sister I knew was simply just in my head,” Ned finally said, after what had Lyanna presumed to have been an eternity for him. She chuckled and shrugged. “Give a man a warning. He could suffer a harsh blow at discovering he’d been so very wrong for so very long.”

To be entirely fair, he was not in the least bit wrong. Going to the market had always been more of a chore than it was a pleasure. It had been needed and she had done it. Lyanna looked to Darya who smiled back and mimicked her response, her shoulders rising and falling. In fact, she had not at all expected to be as thrilled as she was with this excursion.

To her mind, that had to do with the circumstances. As wife and lady of the keep, occasionally venturing to such crowded places had been obligatory. Whether she enjoyed it or not was less of an issue. Yet with Robert’s absence she had learned to enjoy it less and less every time. The longer his absence, the more daring the whispers. The more beautiful lover he returned with, the more pronounced their pity. She’d not wanted to be the object of their pity. Inevitably, she’d been pushed into that corner, defined as the unwanted wife who warranted, in such capacity, very little interest.

In turn, she had kept to herself, the sting one of her own making. Lyanna had simply seen to her duties, content to ignore everything else. At the expense of her own joy, it seemed, now that she considered the matters with more care. Why should she have feared their pity? It was not as if it meant anything for her marriage. She’d known Robert’s nature when she agreed to wed him. It was foolish to have expected a change from him. And it was equally foolish to feel needled at others observing such facts from the side lines.

Yet she had. Keeping them all away, to the last, making certain there was no friend for her to cry on the shoulder of. Was that the mark of a strong woman or of a foolish one? All that left her with was the servants. And the gods knew servants and their masters could be a million things, just not close confidantes. Helpful though they were, Lyanna had not considered any to be a particular companion, but for might be Betha. And not even her.

With Darya it was different. A tad different. Might be for the fact that she feared no pity from her. It was so much easier to allow herself the luxury of confiding in her. There would be very little in the pillow girl’s gaze to betray a single thought other than understanding. Which had been in itself unexpected. It stood to reason that she enjoyed her company as much as she did, despite the vast differences in position. Still, keeping a whore for company was hardly the most scandalous thing she had done.

“Mayhap I have changed,” she answered Ned, turning to give him a playful wink.

“Mayhap you have,” her brother allowed, by way of answer producing a tone like to hers in lightness. “People do change.”

Their search carried them further, until they’d reached a prospective display of dolls, dressed in richly designed gowns, sewn with the gods knew what. Lyanna was very much in tune with Darya as they both gasped. Ned, far too serious for his own good, raised one eyebrow at them. “I will never understand women.”

“One day you will; trust me. For your own good, you will have to.” At the very least she could hope Ashara would manage a son as well. If only to give Ned a like-minded creature he might coax, what was to his mind, sensible conversation. “Which one do you like best?”

“I would not even know where to begin.” To his credit, her brother did not try to cover his unease with the whole thing. “Somehow, I thought it would be a lot easier.”

“Didn’t we all?” That had been Darya. “Your babe is not likely to be fussy now; but worry not, her mother will do that for her until she manages to learn the ropes. I imagine she’ll be only too pleased to make demands when that time comes.” Her eyes scanned the offerings. “Until then, however, feel free to try your best.”

“That one is wearing our colours,” Lyanna pointed to a figurine draped in silver and grey. It was a small thing, might be no bigger than her fist, yet the graceful cut made her all that more imposing amid her sisters. “She even looks a bit like Marna.”

Ned leaned in as well. “Might be you’ve the right of it.” He caught the attention of the merchant, intended on asking for more details, as Lyanna continued her search.

“He will be a good father to that girl growing up,” Darya said.

Lyanna angled her face so their eyes might meet. “I never had any doubt.”

“Nay, but ‘tis always nice to have confirmation on these matters, is it not?” She nodded.

Having had her fill of figurines in bright dress, she turned around fully, surveying the clusters of people. It was so very hard to believe one could go through life without ever seeing such a gathering. “And he will be a wonderful husband as well. Ned is just that sort of man.”

“Speaking of that sort of man,” Darya said after a brief silence, “have you given any thought to my suggestion?”

Attention caught, Lyanna offered a confused sound. “Upon which matter do you mean?”

“Has your interest in learning diminished such that you no longer even recall?” And that proved enough of a reminder for her cheeks to burn a bright red though likely as not a one soul paid the two of them any mind. She attempted to stammer out a reply.

Before she could do so, though, she caught sight of a familiar figure a bit away from where they stood. Disbelief took hold of her, as her mind tugged in two opposite directions.

She was not the only one aware though, for the object of her attention rewarded her receptiveness in short order.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the risk of being the melodramatic grandma here, I have a favour to ask of you (no, don't worry, I'm not asking for patreon donations) and can only hope you'll take a little time out of your busy schedules to read this.
> 
> Being that most of you are young millennials, I'm sure you've heard about the PewDiePie debacle. If you haven't, here's a [link](https://www.reddit.com/r/KotakuInAction/comments/5uocnp/the_pewdiepie_megathread/) with the accusations and responses. Long story short, this is a coordinated attack on a YouTuber, a comedian no less, for supposedly anti-semitic jokes. 
> 
> If your brain hasn't exploded at the jokes part, I'll assume you are still reading. Here's my request: read the articles for yourselves and watch the responses. If you feel the need, watch Pewds himself. I want you to think about what these people are doing and what the implications regarding their moral standards are. 
> 
> This is important for one big reason: this is your freedom they are eroding. And it is not unique to the platform YT offers. And I know, this is 'politics', 'real world' stuff, but if the media shuts up one man and destroys his livelihood, what guarantee is there they won't do such a thing to anyone else they don't like? Everyone who does not accept the narrative is vulnerable.
> 
> Case in point: other coordinated attacks on TYs from the media [link](http://pastebin.com/DqdtR7dD)
> 
> _Just because you do not take an interest in politics doesn't mean politics won't take an interest in you._ \- Pericles 
> 
> So, that was my appeal to you. Also, don't panic I won't turn A/Ns into a social experiment. This is actually one of the few things I feel strongly about. Thus, despite my reach being as small as it is, if even just one person has learned something from this, it'll mean the world to me.


	40. Required Irritation

 

 

 

 

 

 

“My lady,” the man bowed before her, impeccable execution joined by a slight narrowing of eyes which she barely caught as he straightened himself. Gone were the dull, somewhat uninspired browns he’d worn in the village house. Gone was the unkempt beard and the obvious ease one found in a man commanding his home. There was yet something familiar about the jovial set of his lips though, which marked him all the same. “I had expected to find you here.”

She stepped backwards, instinct kicking in sharply. “Expected to? Whatever do you mean?” One of her hand rose to her breast, pressing above her heart. “I had not expected you at all, my good man. Indeed, I am most surprised.”

He chuckled. “Apologies. At times my mouth runs without me. I mean that word had reached my home from your husband’s family, but when I sent my man to Lord Arryn I found out you had repaired to King’s Landing, my lady. Naturally, since word had reached me and I had business to attend to here as well, I expected I should in some way or another come across your ladyship.”  

Before he could explain any further though, a firm hand gripped just beneath her elbow and drew her back. “What now, sister? You cannot just run off as you see fit.” Ned sounded as though he’d swallowed a particularly dry lemon. She winced on his behalf and looked up at him. His attention, however, had already moved to her acquaintance. “And you are?”

In truth she could not blame him. Every single time a new man entered her life, the whole situation somehow became a farce worthy of mummers with painted faces. “Brother, allow me to introduce my saviour, as it were, upon that attack I suffered on my way to Winterfell. This man is called Alyn and were it not for his kindness, I might have perished. He is a merchant by trade.”

“A merchant?” Eddard relaxed, his grip growing slack. “I believe I recall your name being mentioned. Allow me to thank you of my sister’s behalf.” He inclined his head, a tad deeper than she’d ever seen him do for any man outside their class. It was, for lack of a better word, heartening. “You say you have some news for my sister?”

“Indeed.” Alyn pulled a sealed envelope from within his shirt and handed it over. Lyanna caught the folded paper. “I dared not open it, lest there be anything of a delicate nature within. I was going to seek a way to have it delivered to the keep.”

“Of course.” Toying with the possibility of opening the envelope at once and satisfying her curiosity was something which held her attention for little over a few moments before she decided against it and inquired if Ned would keep it safe for her. “I haven’t thought to bring a larger pouch.” And she had not expected to see any familiar faces either. “What matters precisely bring you to these parts, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Does my lady recall a pack of wolves wandered the blessed road beside the murderous thieves?” The man shook his head gently. “We found, we believe, one of the wolves injured. I was going to have its pelt preserved but unforeseen circumstances had me bringing it here instead.”

“You talk as though the beast yet lives,” Darya entered the conversation. Lyanna felt the other’s presence at her side and did not bother to turn around so that she might check. “Why would you carry it here alive?”

Alyn cleared his throat, eyebrows rising perceptibly.He spend a moment too long absorbed in the beauty that was Darya before clearing his throat a second time and speaking, “One of them woodwitches was passing through the village and she swore a great curse would befall us should be slay the beast. Naturally, I am not a superstition man and would have carried on with the task, but a few of the villagers heard as well and would not let the matter be. I was more or less forced into bringing the beast here, upon her word.”

“Bring it here why?” Something caused a tight knot to coil in her stomach. She narrowed her eyes in grim concentration. “I assume the woman had more to say beside that you should allow the creature to live.”

“An old crazed woodswitch, my lady, her words are as naught,” he assured her, pleasant disposition returning. “I have spoken already with a man I know and before long a pelt shall be obtained.”

Disagreement pushed the words out of her mouth before she could stop them. “Nay. I should like to see the wolf.”

“Are you mad?” Ned questioned just as soon.

“I should like to see the beast, if I may,” she repeated her request, pointedly ignoring her brother’s words. The knot exploded into a flare of warmth, filling her middle. It was as though aught had returned within. Aught she’d not even realised she was missing. Lyanna felt her knees tremble and she grabbed onto Ned’s arm, quite unexpectedly for him as he jumped at the touch.

Wide-eyed, the merchant gazed at the three of them. “The witch said you would.”Then he sobered, but then who would not? ‘Tis a wolf, after all and one might be expected to be in awe.”

“At the very least tell me the beast is secured.” She looked at Ned. He was looking at the merchant. “If my sister wants to see the damned beast and a witch predicted she would, then I don’t suppose I can oppose. I will however make certain she is safe.”

“It is caged. And has been ever since its capture. We’ve fed it through the bars.” The poor thing. Caught in a world of steel and deprivation, when it had once been wild and in its element running through the tall grass. She sighed.

“Now that we have established I am in no immediate danger, can I see the wolf today, do you think?” Might be the true questions was why she was so eager to see it? Lyanna did not fear wolves and most certainly not a caged one. That would be akin to fearing her own shadow.  

As indicated by the merchant, he had placed the wolf in a cage as Lyanna would come to find out upon entering the suitably comfortable inn chamber the man had paid good coin for. The cage, a rough construction of decent size, kept within it the coiled form of a wolf neither big, nor small. A midling, as it were, with soft grey dawn and a patch of russet on its head. The pure suffering rolling off of it in waves was more than enough to engage Lyanna’s heart.

Predictably enough the damnable organ demanded she put an end to the ache in any one way, shape or from that she could. “It’s sleeping,” her brother noted, astute as ever. She, on the other hand, approached ever closer. “Not so near. It might wake.”

“And do what precisely?” she demanded quietly. “Bite me? I doubt it can move as much as its head.” From beneath the heap of fur, she could make out one slim limb, covered in dried blood. “Caught is leg in some manner of trap?”

“It was savaged, as far as we could tell, by another of its kin.” She nodded. “They abandoned it, might be in hopes it would die. Or as some manner of punishment.” That she doubted. It was more likely the wolf wishes to be solitary and abandoned its pack, meeting whatever danger at a later time and succumbing to a vicious attack. It made more sense. “Found it just in time too. Had the witch working to bond some of the wounds.”

Clearly the woman had wanted the beast to live, and more than that had predicted she would wish to see it as well.There was little doubt in her mind as to where the whole thing was heading. The question boiled down to willingness, on her part, to take the creature in. Just another fierce predator nestled close to her children. The Red Keep boasted dragons and Targaryens alike’ what was one measly wolf besides? Nay, it would cost her naught in terms of danger. This one would not be moving anytime soon and indeed it looked as though it were breathing its last. The least she could do was have it die in some comfort, amid a few pillows, warm and well-fed. A life for a life. It was a fair trade.

“Lyanna, what are you thinking?”

“What mean you?” Her eyes snapped to her brother’s.

“I know that look. It’s the one you get when you’re contemplating doing something you know you should not. Stop it.”

“You still have not learned much, have you?” Instead of following through with the potential argument, she pushed past him and addressed the merchant. “How much for the wolf?”

“Absolutely not,” objected Ned.

“This should prove interesting,” Darya submitted, more in keeping with Lyanna’s mood.

As for the man she spoke to, he shook his head in mild disbelief. “I promised the witch the price shall be naught were you to offer to take the beast in yourself.”

“Nay, I insist. I could not possibly rob you blind in so callous a manner.” Still he shook his head. “Very well then, at the very least accept my word that I shall find a way to substantially repay you,” she continued. A wolf, a few dragons. She half wondered if a bear was somewhere in the future.

 

        

 

    

 

 tbc max 48 h    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dcided to try new style of update; maybe i'll finish this in 100000000 years. damn this story


	41. A Funeral With Plumes And With Lights

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rhaenys was half aware that cats did not fly. It did not stop Balerion. The black feline glided through thin air as though he'd been born with wings and only an accident of fate had him running along bannisters, halls and banquet tables. More than that, his size had increased considerably, lending him a fearsome quality. Not that Rhaenys would ever be afraid of a cat. That would be ludicrous.

With that in mind, she figured that dreaming about a titanic cat flying through the skies was not a half bad experience to have. She sat down in the grass and followed Balerion's progress with enthusiasm. When else was she going to see such a thing? As though privy to her thoughts, the object of her admiration regarded her with wide, slanted eyes before performing a somersault. She clapped by manner of reward, laughter spilling past her lips.

Might be she could convince Aegon to share his dragon with her when the creature grew, she considered, staring longingly at the flying beast. Her brother would understand, after all, everyone wanted to fly. She would wait her turn though and an opportunity. Meantime, dreams sufficed in fulfilling her desire for wings, upon a cat or otherwise.

Before she could consider too deeply the matters of wings though, the rustling of leaves forever in the background came to a grinding halt. She paused as well, breath freezing in her lungs at the sudden change. It felt, well, how to put it, as though some manner of threat were being levelled towards her, something that could reach her even where she was, safely cocooned in sheets and furs. Her father only a few doors away. A most horrifying sort of fear fuelled not by the devils one knew.

In the end she could only gather her courage and call out, "Who is there?"

Her question did not remain unanswered. But rather than words, it was the sound of someone approaching that caught her attention. This presence had the opposite effect upon her. Her head snapped, eyes searching for whoever came in such fashion.

"I am half sick of shadows," the familiar voice of a good friend uttered. At her side, as though come upon a mist, Jon sat, his small face set into a firm frown.

"You look ill," she noted, a vague note of concern driving away sight of flight and cat and sunny skies. The frown deepened, countenance very near glassy. Her hand reached out but as she touched his, it was a struggle not to cry out. "My gods, you're cold as ice."

"I will miss you, and Aegon." What manner of jest was that? Rhaenys felt her brow furrow, and with good reason. She mussed a little space before understanding that he was, in fact, indicating a desire to exchange with her, of all people, goodbyes.

"Whatever are you saying there, Jon Baratheon?"

His lips twisted in a forced smile. He did not answer her question, but in the next moment he had disappeared, leaving her alone in her field. Little other care had she until something drew her from sleep's embrace. Rhaenys came to as the boat reached the shore upon the gentle current of a great river. Aegon remained slumbering t her side, his hands trapped beneath his cheek, pinned upon the embroidered face of a wide pillow.

Naught seemed amiss, as far as she could tell. A few candles had been gutted, quite possibly by a breeze striking sometime during the night. She eyed the lancet, the door, the floors, everything and anything which could indicate trouble. But nay, there was little complaint she could bring. Her expectations thus challenged, she blinked, shifting uncertainly towards her present kin. If she woke him, he would certainly not be pleased; but her gut insisted something was wrong. Through the sheaves of doubt, she somehow found a kernel of strong enough conviction that her feet landed upon the ground and before long took her about the chamber.

One thing did she find which might be called strange. A round, silver-framed looking glass placed upon the table. That looking glass she had gazed into as her hair was combed and braided. The trouble was it was now cracked from top to bottom, one thin line, as though something had attempted to cut a path through it.

Or might be it had simply fallen and cracked. That made a lot more sense. Rhaenys put some distance between herself and the object. Yet she was not at ease. Whatever woke her did not wish her to regain peace.

Looking upon the waking world, she admired the gay colours the rising sun painted the skies with. Why not see Jon; if only to chastise him for the swift departure he'd enacted. The thought appealed. Returning to the bed, she climbed up and shook her brother's shoulder with vigour.

"What?" he demanded groggily.

"I am going to see Jon. Do you want to come with?" Bleary eyes flashed angrily as one of his hands grabbed her wrist, pushing her hand away from his shoulder.

"I am sleeping."

"But you are awake," she pointed out smartly. "You might as well not waste more time."

"I am sleeping, Rhaenys." As though to prove his point, he hid his face away in his pillow, a grunt leaving his lips as his whole body turned. Taking that for a dismissal she shrugged off his refusal and decided she would not have enjoyed his presence at any rate.

Leaving his side, she tugged free one of the furs and wrapped it around her shoulders to ward off the chill of the morning. And without further ado, she went out the door, fully expecting to find a deserted hallway.

Only that once more was she challenged upon catching sight of their minder and her own father. Both looked aghast, although one seemed more pained than the other.

They stood before Jon's door. Rhaenys frowned as unlikely words reached her. "But Your Majesty, the body must be prepared."

"No one touches the boy."

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done.
> 
> And yes, he is well and truly dead, before you ask.


End file.
